The Red Horizon Part 18

Rations were short for breakfast, dinner did not arrive, we had no tea but all the men were quite cheerful for it was rumoured that we were going back to our billets at four o'clock in the afternoon. About that hour we were relieved by another battalion, and we marched back (p. 184) through the communication trench, past Marie Redoubt, Gunner Siding, the Keep and into a trench that circled along the top of the Brick Path. This was not the way out; why had we come here? had the officer in front taken the wrong turning? Our billet there was such a musty old barn with straw littered on the floor and such a quaint old farmhouse where they sold newly laid eggs, fresh b.u.t.ter, fried potatoes, and delightful salad! We loved the place, the sleepy barges that glided along the ca.n.a.l where we loved to bathe, the children at play; the orange girls who sold fruit from large wicker baskets and begged our tunic b.u.t.tons and hat-badges for souvenirs. We wanted so much to go back that evening! Why had they kept us waiting?

"'Eard that?" Bill said to me. "Two London battalions are goin' to charge to-night. They're pa.s.sing up the trench and we're in 'ere to let them get by."

"About turn!"

We stumbled back again into the communication trench and turned to the left, to go out we should have gone to the right. What was happening?

Were we going back again? No dinner, no tea, no rations and sleepless nights.... The barn at our billet with the cobwebs on the rafters (p. 185) ... the salad and soup.... We weren't going out that night.

We halted in a deep narrow trench between Gunner Siding and Marie Redoubt, two hundred yards back from the firing trench. Our officer read out orders.

"The ---- Brigade is going to make an attack on the enemy's position at 6.30 this evening. Our battalion is to take part in the attack by supporting with rifle fire."

Two of our companies were in the firing line; one was in support and we were reserves; we had to remain in the trench packed up like herrings, and await further instructions. The enemy knew the communication trench; they had got the range months before and at one time the trench was occupied by them.

We got into the trench at the time when the attack took place; our artillery was now silent and rapid rifle fire went on in front; a life and death struggle was in progress there. In our trench it was very quiet, we were packed tight as the queue at the gallery door of a cheap music-hall on a Sat.u.r.day night.

"Blimey, a balmy this!" said Bill making frantic efforts to squash my toes in his desire to find a fair resting place for his feet. (p. 186) "I'm 'ungry. Call this the best fed army in the world. Dog and maggot all the bloomin' time. I need all the hemery paper given to clean my bayonet, to sharpen my teeth to eat the stuff. How are we goin' to sleep this night, Pat?"

"Standing."

"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right," said Bill. Stoner was all right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of the traverse and he was lying there already asleep.

We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated. It was impossible for the company to spread out, on the right we were touching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leading to the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of another battalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company in full marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and empty stomachs.

I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gave credence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale of two trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firing line and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came on two of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found (p. 187) them speaking to one another.

"Nark it, Pat," muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Git out!"

"Of course you don't understand," I said. "The trench-mortar has a soul, a mind and great discrimination," I told him.

"What's a bomb?" asked Bill.

"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as I have said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to steal away and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy."

"Blimey!"

"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat, and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of the howitzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop at Givenchy."

"Oo's 'Ughie what dy'e call 'im of that place?"

"He used to be a goat-herd in Donegal once upon a time when cows were kine and eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of giants."

"Wot!"

"I often met him there, going out to the pastures, with a herd of (p. 188) goats before him and a herd of goats behind him and a salmon tied to the laces of his brogues for supper."

"I wish we 'ad somethin' for supper," said Bill.

"Hold your tongue. He has lived for many thousands of years, has Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran," I said, "but he hasn't reached the first year of his old age yet. Long ago when there were kings galore in Ireland, he went out to push his fortune about the season of Michaelmas and the harvest moon. He came to Tirnan-Oge, the land of Perpetual Youth which is flowing with milk and honey."

"I wish this trench was!"

"Bill!"

"But you're balmy, chum," said the c.o.c.kney, "'owitzers talkin' and then this feller. Ye're pullin' my leg."

"I'm afraid you're not intellectual enough to understand the psychology of a trench-howitzer or the temperament of Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, Bill."

"'Ad 'e a finance?"[2]

[Footnote 2: Fiancee.]

"A what?" I asked.

"Wot Goliath 'as, a girl at home." (p. 189)

"That's it, is it? Why do you think of such a thing?"

"I was trying to write a letter to-day to St. Albans," said Bill, and his voice became low and confidential. "But you're no mate," he added.

"You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet."

"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked.

"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"

"About the stars--"

"Star-sh.e.l.ls if you like."

"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later."

"Righto!"

I plunged into impromptu verse.

I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof, My candle s.h.i.+nes in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof, Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war, My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star.

"That's 'ot stuff," said Bill.

I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of an approaching sh.e.l.l was heard; a messenger of death from a great German gun out at La Ba.s.see. This gun was no stranger to us; he often (p. 190) played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew in the wall a few nights before and killed the two Engineers. The missile he flung moved slowly and could not keep pace with its own sound. Five seconds before it arrived we could hear it coming, a slow, certain horror, sure of its mission and steady to its purpose. The big gun at La Ba.s.see was sh.e.l.ling the communication trench, endeavouring to stop reinforcements from getting up to the firing lines and the red field between.

The sh.e.l.l burst about fifty yards away and threw a shower of dirt over us. There was a precipitate flop, a falling backwards and forwards and all became messed up in an intricate jumble of flesh, equipment, clothing and rifles in the bottom of the trench. A swarm of "bees"

buzzed overhead, a few dropped into the trench and Pryor who gripped one with his hand swore under his breath. The splinter was almost red-hot.

The trench was voluble.

"I'm chokin'; get off me tummy."