Chapter III (4)

Most leisured readers require a considerable length of time to assimilate that work; Jan, who had practically no leisure between sunrise and sunset, got through it in a week. He read it, as he read most works, with only a dim comprehension but with great contentment. Contentment, in fact, was the blessing bestowed upon him by Miss Haseldine’s happy inspiration; so that he spoke no more of joining the Army, while she was rewarded by the respectful thanks of his parents. From Jan himself she received something more than thanks and respect. It was, no doubt, natural enough that his imagination, fired by the novels and plays which she prescribed as occasional alternatives to historical study, should clothe her with the attributes of a heroine of romance. His contentment, for that matter, was perhaps as much the outcome of talks with Miss Mildred as of communings with authors who by themselves might rather have tended to increase the latent disquietude which they were supposed to have allayed. These talks became frequent during the autumn weeks, occasion for them being willingly supplied by a young lady who could not help finding Jan Issel unusual and interesting. He came out, every now and then, with the quaintest, the most original, the most poetical remarks, and if his hearer sometimes had a little inward laugh, she was very careful not to let her features betray her; because his sensitiveness was no less manifest than his timid devotion. To inspire devotion—especially when it is timid—is seldom disagreeable to any young lady; so Miss Mildred often overtook Jan in the lanes or summoned him to the house; and this was really kind of her, seeing that she, who had so much to fill her thoughts just then, might well have been excused if she had forgotten all about a queer, dreamy farm lad. For those were the days in which the long battle of the Aisne was developing, and although her brother Frank had thus far escaped death or wounds, bad news of him and others might come at any moment.

In Jan’s thoughts there was not much room for the war and its vicissitudes. There would have been no room in them at all for Judith Combe if she had not enjoyed the proverbial privilege of living near the rose, which entailed the more dubious one of hearing the rose extolled without intermission during those Sunday walks which at an earlier period had been so largely taciturn. But Judith was a long-suffering little soul, and it was only after much hesitation that she ventured to ask:

‘Bain’t ’ee gettin’ tu fond of her, Jan?’

Jan reddened all over his face and neck. ‘Tu fond o’ Miss Mildred! What be dramin’ about then? Do ’ee think a dog can get tu fond o’ the sun? You’m talkin’ proper nonsense, Judy.’

Nevertheless, Judith’s words came to him as a shock and a revelation, over which he pondered for hours afterwards. At first he was ashamed of his audacity and felt as if he had been guilty of some unpardonable outrage; but by degrees he arrived at a different view of the matter. What if he did love a human goddess? When all was said, he could not help it. The veriest cur, according to his own homely metaphor, may bask in the sun, and she could not be displeased by what would certainly never be revealed to her. It was his secret, which he was surely free to cherish, without the least shadow of hope, much as certain sixteenth-century poets cherished a passion for Queen Elizabeth, or said they did. But the fact of being without shadow of hope—as of course he was—did not preclude indulgence in ecstatic visions. His mobile imagination enabled him to see himself earning literary renown (like the peasant Robert Burns, perhaps), rising by virtue of the same to a position of admitted equality with the highest in the land and stripping the laurels from his brow to lay them at Mildred’s feet. Such things could not come to pass, and he knew that they could not; yet he liked to picture them and might plead that his fancies were as harmless as his love.

Harmless both may have been; only both contributed to bring about a return of his old restlessness. He was now embarrassed in conversing with Miss Mildred; he could not get rid of a haunting dread that she might suspect his sentiments (she was perhaps not so far from suspecting them as he thought), and then how would he ever dare to look her in the face again? More and more evident was it to him that he must leave the farm, that he would have to go some day and that he had better go soon. Added to this, his brothers were beginning to talk about donning khaki. Without saying anything to their father, they discussed the question amongst themselves and agreed that if ‘th’ old war’ was going to last another year, as the newspapers said it was, they could not decently keep out of it. It was impossible for all of them to go, that was certain; but one, or even two, of them might. The youngest they excluded, not only because ‘mother wouldn’t niver part with ’un,’ but because he was understood to have been cured of military hankerings. Thus it became plain that procrastination would only place fresh obstacles in Jan’s path.

It was on a grey morning in October that he was accosted by a recruiting sergeant at Exeter, whither he had been sent to dispose of some steers, and there was no need to impress upon him that Flanders was the right place for a likely young chap without encumbrances. He intimated that that was his own view and asked whether he could have a couple of days ‘to wind up like.’ Three, if he chose, the pleased sergeant replied; but he said two would be enough. They might even be excessive, he thought, for although old Mrs. Issel was a fond mother, she had a ‘tarrible power o’ spache’ when aggrieved; but he could not go off to the wars without taking leave of Miss Mildred, and he wanted to make sure of a farewell audience. More with that end in view than because he recognised any claim that Miss Mildred’s maid might have upon him, he marched up to Culme House the same evening and briefly informed Judith that he had taken the King’s shilling.

‘Aw, ma dear soul!’ cried the girl, throwing up her hands in dismay, ‘what iver did ’ee du that vur?’

It was a thing, Jan answered, that had to be done—a thing that every young man in England would be doing before long, by what he had heard tell. He further attempted to explain why for him in particular it was essential to break fresh ground; but, not making much of a success of this and noticing, moreover, that Judith was not listening, he desisted.

Judith was crying softly, and that gave him a pain at his heart. His mother also, instead of scolding him, as he had expected her to do, had wept, throwing her apron over her head and rocking herself to and fro, while his father, after one short, angry outburst, had abruptly fallen silent and had walked out of the house with bowed shoulders. It is cruel to have to hurt people like that; but—what can one do? He did his best to comfort poor little Judy, who was afraid ‘they pesky Germans’ would kill him—which indeed did not seem unlikely—but who tried to recover a cheerful countenance and assured him that she understood everything. He could not, of course, believe that she did, and would have been quite sorry if she had; still he was grateful to her for being so brave about it and for readily promising to deliver a message to Miss Mildred.

He had thought—perhaps half hoped—that Miss Mildred would reproach him a little for having so suddenly taken a step from which he had been dissuaded by her; but when she met him on the morrow she did nothing of the kind. Circumstances alter cases; the country now needed all who were fit to serve; she assumed that Jan had been actuated by patriotic motives and had only praise and congratulations for him.

‘How proud we shall all be of you if you come back with a V.C. or an officer’s commission!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nothing is impossible in war time, you know.’

Jan smiled and shook his head, but, he often thought of her words afterwards and made them the nucleus of innumerable day-dreams. What he longed for at the time was some hint of regret on her part, some intimation that she would miss him a little. However, she did not seem to think that there was anything to regret, and it was absurd to suppose that his departure could make any difference to her. Why should it? One thing, at any rate, she said which was as delightful as it was unforeseen.

‘You must let me hear from you, John. Write often and at great length, please, and tell me exactly how everything strikes you. Answer? Oh, of course I will, and I’ll send you socks and mufflers and things, not to mention books.’ She added, after a moment, ‘I was thinking of giving you something now, only I don’t know what you would like to have.’

Jan knew very well what he would like to have: whether he might dare to ask for it was another question. However, he was going away and it was probable enough that he would see her no more; so he screwed up courage to confess that the most welcome gift she could bestow upon him would be something that had belonged to herself—maybe the little silver pencil-case which he had so often seen her use.

She presented it to him with a bright smile and with no appearance of thinking him presumptuous. Then she frankly shook him by the hand, wished him the best of luck and left him beside the gate leading up to Bratton Farm, where their colloquy had been held. At the bend of the road she turned to wave him a last farewell and so disappeared into the misty twilight.

Jan raised the precious pencil-case to his lips, pushed it into his waistcoat pocket and was happy. He even told himself in so many words that he was happy; which is an experience of such rarity that those to whom it has once come never quite forget it. Jan thought that if he were to be shot the next week, he would still have had as good a moment as three score years and ten of life could bring him.

But of course there was no question of his being shot the next week or for a great many weeks to come. The training process through which he and other recruits had to go might have been tedious if he had not accepted it as an indispensable means towards an end, and if he had not, rather unexpectedly, found a certain pleasure in it. The monotony of drill was at least a novel species of monotony; his comrades were for the most part cheery, companionable fellows, many of whom differed sufficiently from the types hitherto known to him to stimulate his ever alert curiosity; the sergeant who instructed them in the use of the bayonet had semi-jocular anecdotes of his own experiences to relate which exhibited the grim visage of war as wreathed in smiles. Even the very real hardships and discomforts of camp life under persistent, pitiless rain were made light of by Jan, who felt himself developing into an efficient soldier day by day and who indeed was often singled out for commendation. He wrote regularly, if briefly, to the old people at the farm, regretting that there was so little to say; yet he found plenty to say to Miss Mildred. Had she not bidden him to write ‘at great length’? Those carefully composed epistles of his, which were couched in a queer mixture of dialect and high-flown language and in which words (culled from the works of some more competent manipulator of them) were occasionally used in a sense unrecognised by the dictionary, were not without pathos, as showing forth a poor mortal brimming over with ideas and impressions and struggling hard to be articulate. Let us hope that their recipient so interpreted them. Her replies, at any rate, laconic though they were, gave the utmost satisfaction to a worshipper who was duly sensible of her graciousness in deigning to reply at all.

What was not very satisfactory to Jan was that there was no talk of the battalion to which he belonged proceeding to the front. Some of the men professed to doubt whether they would ever leave the country; others had heard that they were to get marching orders in the coming summer; all were agreed that they would have to make the best of their sodden camp for several months yet. But no such trial of patience awaited Jan, who was despatched to France with a draft at very short notice early in February and who was not long left in his first halting-place some distance behind the fighting line. His impressions of life in the flooded trenches and of what it felt like to be under fire were given with great simplicity, though not without here and there a graphic touch, in the letters which he afterwards found time to write to Mildred. This war, he said, was not like any other war that he had ever heard or read of. It had had its glories, but it did not seem as if it was going to have any more. Your enemies were close at hand, but you couldn’t get at them, nor yet they couldn’t get at you. So, taken as a whole, it was not exciting. The worst part of it was the awful noise of the guns and the bursting shells, which he found more trying than the wet and cold and the ugly sights about which he was sure that his correspondent would not wish him to say much. The desolation of the ravaged country, the wrecked villages and farmhouses, the homeless peasants, the poor wandering dogs and cats—he dwelt on these and said that he seemed to be witnessing all the horrors and miseries of war without any of its grand spectacular effects. (‘Where in the world did he get “spectacular effects” from?’ Mildred smilingly wondered when she read this sentence.)

‘And yet,’ he went on, ‘it’s a singular thing that I never felt at peace like I do now. I don’t know as I can make you understand, Miss—I’m so bad at setting my meaning down—but it keeps coming over me that all’s as it should be. Particular at nights, when the clouds blow away and I can look up at the stars. This planet we live on isn’t but a very small speck, and we, scrambling about in our trenches, as it might be so many emmets, what matter how soon we’re gone and forgotten? Years and centuries pass and everything is forgotten. So why worry? And then the chaps alongside of me. We don’t talk except about common things, only I know they’re feeling the same as I do, which draws us together like. Maybe it’s because of death being always round the corner. Do you mind that poem of Kipling’s, called _The Return_, in one of the books you lent me? It’s wonderful true what he says⸺

“So much more near than I ’ad known,
So much more great than I ’ad guessed—
And me, like all the rest, alone—
But reachin’ out to all the rest!”

That’s just the way it strikes me, and somehow it seems to make for peace, though I couldn’t say why.’

If Jan had probed and analysed the serenity of spirit which he strove to define, he might have discovered that it arose simply from a sense that he was doing his duty; but he never quite arrived at that conclusion. What he did conclude—and found humorously puzzling—was that the place into which he had dropped was the right place for him, that he must always have been meant to be a soldier, not a poet nor an imaginative writer nor any of the fine things that he would have liked to be, but just a private in an infantry regiment. Well, even so, ambition need not be banished, and his chance of earning what Miss Mildred had said would make her proud might come any day.

He did, as the weeks slipped on, obtain sundry occasions of proving himself a capable fighter; but the affairs in which he was concerned were not important enough for public record. Save for these sporadic attacks upon the enemy, which for the most part resulted only in the loss of a considerable number of lives, there was no break in the regular routine of so many days in the trenches, followed by a period of rest in billets, whence he despatched his letters, writing them invariably with the pencil which was his most treasured possession.

It was on a cold, frosty night in spring that two staff officers, passing along his trench, halted beside him, and one of them called out:

‘Hullo!—hanged if it isn’t John Issel! Well, Jan, ’tis a wisht poor job sodgerin’, sure enough. Bain’t it now?’

Jan, standing at the salute, had a broad smile for the handsome young fellow who accosted him in the dialect of which he had lately been endeavouring to rid himself. He did not know much of Captain Haseldine, but he was proud and pleased to be recognised, and he made reply that he had nothing to complain about. Campaigning, he added, was teaching him a lot of new things.

‘Oh, it’s doing that for most of us,’ Frank Haseldine observed, laughing. ‘Even for some of our Generals.’

He went on talking for a few minutes about home affairs, remarking in an explanatory parenthesis to his companion, ‘Issel comes from our parish.’ Then he said to Jan ‘You’ll see Captain Bernard again one of these days, I hope, if we all pull through. Captain Bernard is engaged to be married to my sister Mildred.’

It was a little like being hit by a bullet—a sudden thump which made your heart stand still, yet left you erect and with an instant feeling that your first duty was to show no sign of distress. Jan showed none, and presently the two officers moved on, leaving him free to think what he would beneath his friends the blinking stars. These gave him such comfort as they had it in their power to bestow. They said it did not matter, because nothing really matters, and to that view in the abstract he could assent. But to affirm that so long as his little life might last it would not matter that somebody—he had scarcely looked at the man—was going to marry his goddess was quite vain. If the stars had asked whether he had ever imagined that he himself could marry Miss Mildred, he would naturally have answered ‘Of course not’; yet, however ridiculous and insane it might be, the truth was that he could not bear the idea of her belonging to anybody else. So what it came to, and what it had doubtless been bound to come to from the outset, was that he could not bear conditions which were altogether right, reasonable and inevitable. Jan Issel was not the first to find himself in that forlorn plight. In extreme cases it has been known to lead to suicide; in the vast majority it entails submission, more or less facile, to the decrees of destiny; for Jan it translated itself into a very fervent and genuine hope that the Germans might wipe him out. He saw now—it may have been illogical, but that made no difference to the fact—that his visions had been utterly childish, that he, an uneducated yokel, had no future and could have none, that it would be far better for him to end out there in Flanders than to be confronted some day with the dire prospect of a return to tilling the Devon fields and herding the Devon cattle.

This mood, it is true, did not endure; for he became hazily conscious that there was something contemptible in it and that a young, strong man has no business to wish himself extinguished. Nevertheless, he had more difficulty than usual in composing his next letter to Mildred, in which he made no allusion to her engagement, thinking that it would be bad manners to do so, since she had not mentioned it to him. At the end he remarked:

‘We lose men most days, and maybe my turn will come. It is good to be alive, because the world is beautiful and wonderful and because of some of the people in it; but I don’t think there can be many so happy that they should mind dying, for I can’t believe but what death means rest.’

With such persuasions he was well prepared to face what was in store for him when at length his battalion was told off to join in an engagement on a large scale. They knew very little about it beyond the fact that the British forces, after a rather prolonged spell of inaction, were about to resume the offensive and that their own special job would be to take a position facing them which was said to have been mined. That it had been mined with success was evidenced towards evening by a series of terrific explosions which seemed simply to annihilate the enemy’s defensive works; but the infantry were held back until a deluge of shell had been poured into the ruins. Then Jan and his comrades got the order to go, and away they went through the twilight smoke and dust, meeting with no opposition from the apparently broken foe. The distance that separated them from the first line of hostile trenches was traversed in no time, and that first line, or what remained of it, was occupied with ease; but in the communication trenches the Germans made a stand which resulted in hand-to-hand fighting of a really desperate nature. Of what was taking place amidst that tumult and welter and in the falling dusk Jan had only a confused notion; he supposed he must be performing his share of the task all right, because somebody sang out, ‘Well done, Issel!’ He was aware of being wounded, for the warm blood was trickling down his leg and soaking through his putties; but he felt neither pain nor weakness. Finally there came an abrupt lull. The bearded, grey-coated Germans had vanished, and he realised that the next line of trenches had been carried. He realised also, for the second time in his life, that he was quite happy. When he fell in, forming up with the remnants of his shattered battalion, he heard himself laughing aloud in sheer glee—he was as happy as that!

Was it a victory? It seemed so; yet a sudden and violent fusillade, opening upon them from their left, caused him to glance interrogatively at his neighbour. The man answered his unspoken query with a muttered ‘Enfiladed, by God!’ and immediately afterwards fell forward, groaning and swearing. But no groan came from Jan Issel, whom a bullet struck full in the heart; so that he dropped and never stirred again—only one amongst thousands who were delivered that night from the complications and bewilderments of a sick world.

To fall fighting for England in the full tide of life, to fall, shot through the heart, without a pang and in a moment of supreme exaltation is to finish gloriously, enviably. We all know this and we all say it, though some of us perhaps may feel that our own hearts are none the less broken for that. However, it was not to be expected that Mildred Haseldine should be broken-hearted when the news came to Culme House. She was much distressed; still she could not but recognise that there were compensating circumstances, and she went over at once to Bratton Farm to impart some of these to the poor lad’s parents. If her condolences were not received in quite as grateful a spirit as they might have been, she could and did make allowances for the grief-stricken farmer and his wife. Old Issel scarcely listened to what she was saying, and cut her short by calling out in a loud, harsh voice:

‘What did ’a want to go and get hisself killed vur? Darn they foul Germans! Yes, Miss, I don’t doubt but you’m sorry, but it bain’t your sorrow as’ll bring my boy back.’

With that he stumped out of the kitchen, leaving Mildred to do what she could with Mrs. Issel, which was an even more difficult matter. For Mrs. Issel, dry-eyed and despairing, had some rather unkind and irrational things to say. When, for instance, she was gently told that her visitor had strong personal reasons for sympathising with all to whom the war was bringing anxiety or loss, it was not very generous to rejoin that the young lady need not fret. ‘They staff officers don’t niver take no hurt, so I’ve heerd tell.’ But what was really too unjust to be endured without protest was the assertion that it was Miss Mildred more than anybody who had driven Jan away to distant battlefields by ‘putting a passel of foolish notions into his head.’ In self-defence, Mildred had to remind the old woman that, so far from having encouraged Jan to enlist, she had tried, by providing him with other interests, to deter him from so doing. As for his actual enlistment, she had only heard of it after it had become an accomplished fact. This being undeniably true, Mrs. Issel made no reply and remained silent while it was represented to her that we can never be sure whether an early death is a misfortune or not. No living being can hope to escape sorrow and suffering, and Mildred, for her part, did not think that poor Jan’s temperament was of the kind that tends towards happiness.

Probably that also was true. It would hardly have made Jan happy to discover—as he might have done—that he had mistaken an entirely commonplace young woman for a divinity nor to realise—as he must have done—that he was too heavily weighted in life’s handicap to emerge from the ruck where he was so ill at ease. Judith Combe, while brushing her mistress’s hair that evening, said of him with unexpected sagacity that maybe Providence had ‘served him kind’ by taking him out of this world, seeing that he would always have been set upon what was beyond his reach.

Judith herself was so set upon obtaining something for which she was more than a little afraid to ask that she decided to take the risk of making her desire known. Could Miss Mildred spare one of Jan’s letters? He had not written to her at all, and she would like very much, if she might, to have a page or two from his own hand. ‘Because we was in a manner friends, you see, Miss.’

Mildred looked inquiringly at her sedate handmaid and smiled. ‘I am not sure that it would be quite fair to the poor boy,’ she answered. ‘He says some things which many people would think rather comic, and perhaps I oughtn’t.... However, you wouldn’t understand. Oh, well, yes, Judith—take them all, if you care to have them. I think I can find the whole collection.’

So the whole collection became the property of Judith, who spent many an hour over it and stained some of its leaves with her tears. It is by no means certain that she did not understand Jan’s flights of fancy and diction. It may even have constituted one of the unnumbered ironies of human experience that Jan himself should have been more nearly understood by the illiterate Judith than by Mildred Haseldine or by anybody else.

W. E. NORRIS.

_THE NEW ‘UBIQUE’: A BATTLE._

BY JEFFERY E. JEFFERY.

By the ears and the eyes and the brain,
By the limbs and the hands and the wings,
We are slaves to our masters the guns,
But their slaves are the masters of kings!

GILBERT FRANKAU.

Somewhere about the middle of June, we knew definitely that we were ‘for it,’ as the soldier says; we knew that our division was one of those chosen for the great concentration which was to culminate in the ‘great push’—and we were proud of the distinction. A three days’ march brought us to a certain training area, where we camped for a week and worked some seventeen hours a day—counting, that is, from réveillé at 4 A.M. until the last bit of harness was hung up clean and ready for the morrow at 9 P.M.

During this period two incidents of note occurred. One was that the Child suddenly developed pleurisy, and was removed to hospital—a serious loss at any time, but especially so at this particular moment. The other was that a squadron of hostile aircraft flew over our manœuvre ground and actually dropped a bomb within 150 yards of the tail of our column. Which, seeing that we were some twenty miles from the nearest part of the line and at the moment only playing at soldiers, was most disconcerting.

From the time when we left this training area until, about three weeks later, we were withdrawn to rest in a quiet part of the line, I kept a rough diary of our particular share in the greatest battle ever fought by the British Army. The following are some extracts from it, in no way embellished, but only enlarged so as to make them intelligible.

_June 27._—Nine-hour night march southwards, arriving in
comfortable billets at 3.30 A.M. Aeroplanes (or at any rate,
hostile ones) are the curse of this war: if it was not for
fear of them we could move by daylight in a reasonable manner.
The old saddler, dozing on a wagon, fell off and was run over:
nothing broken, but he will be lost to us. A great pity, as
he’s a charming character and a first-class workman.

_June 28 and 29._—Rested, the continuation of the march having
been postponed.

_June 30._—Orders to move on to-night. Was sent off with a
small party on a road and river reconnaissance: this presumably
with a view to going forward ‘when the advance begins.’ By the
time we got back to where the brigade was to billet, had ridden
about forty miles. Job only half finished. Battery marched in
at midnight.

_July 1._—Started at 5.30 A.M. with same party to finish
reconnaissance. Reached a point about four miles behind the
line, at 7.15 A.M.: a tremendous bombardment in progress. Left
our horses, and walked on two miles to a river. Here learnt
that the attack had been launched at 7.30 and was going well.
Walked north up the river-bank, keeping well under the shelter
of the steep ridge on the east side, and only emerging to
examine each bridge as we came to it. Thousands upon thousands
of shells of every size, from ‘Grannies’ to 18-prs., passing
over our heads unceasingly: expected the enemy to retaliate.
But not a round came: probably the Boche was too busily engaged
elsewhere. Met streams of wounded coming down; some with
captured helmets, nearly all with grins.

Finished the river reconnaissance about 10.30 and walked back
by a roundabout (but less unpleasant!) way, and reached our
horses about midday. Rode back to the battery and spent the
afternoon writing out full report. Orders to move at 11.30 P.M.
Long night march to new billets, arriving 4.15 A.M.

_July 2._—Rested. In the course of the day the Child returned,
having in some amazing way persuaded the hospital authorities
that pleurisy and a temperature of 104° are the best possible
things to have on the eve of a great offensive. Swears he’s all
right now, and objects to being ordered to take it easy—while
he can. Heavy bombardment all day, but we are eight miles back
here. Official communiqués record further successes.

_July 3._—Moved at 9.30 P.M., and arrived (5.30 A.M.) soaking
wet at the worst bivouac it has ever been our unhappy lot to
occupy.

_July 4._—Saw about 150 German prisoners being brought back.
In the afternoon, after a violent thunderstorm, went to look
at the position which we are to take over. Found that it was
immensely strong. Originally it was only 1200 yards from the
enemy front line, but now, since the advance, is about 3000.
Steady rain all the time. Got back to find the camp converted
into a veritable bog, and men of all the batteries making
shelters for themselves by cutting down trees and looting
straw. There will be a row over this, but—well, it is too much
to expect men to submit to such _unnecessary_ discomfort.

_July 5._—Took the Child and two telephonists and went up to
new position. Bombardment proceeding incessantly. Was amazed
at the amount of material already brought up, at the gangs
already working on the shell-wrecked roads, and at the crowd of
spectators who lined a convenient ridge to ‘watch the show.’

Went with the Child and the battery commander from whom we
were taking over to get a look at the country and visit the
O.P. Passed through Fricourt—not long captured. Never could a
bombardment have done its work of destruction more thoroughly
than here. Not figuratively, but literally; no one brick stood
upon another, scarcely one brick was whole. Walked on up the
sunken road that leads north from Fricourt past the Dingle and
Shelter Wood. For days this road had been a death-trap. It
was strewn with corpses, with stretchers on which lay wounded
men awaiting removal, with broken bits of equipment, English
and German—and it stank. We arrived at the headquarters of a
battalion and asked if we could see the colonel.

‘No,’ they told us, ‘you can’t at present. He’s just been
buried in his dug-out by a shell, and it will be some time
before we get him clear; he’s all right, but a bit shaken.’

So we went on up a battered trench to the O.P. In it a
subaltern and two signallers, all three caked in mud. At the
moment the wire to the battery was intact. Two men had been
killed and one wounded whilst mending it. From here we could
see the famous Quadrangle Trench, which at that time was
holding up the advance. Many batteries were shooting at it.
Having got our bearings, so to speak, we did not linger in this
most unhealthy spot, but returned to the battery position.

On the way home met our own colonel bearing the news that the
brigade would probably go into action in quite a different
area. This news confirmed at H.Q. at 5 P.M. Turned back and
reconnoitred the new position, which was farther south, nearer
Fricourt; rather cramped and quite unprepared for occupation.
Cadged dinner from an old friend whom we met at D.H.Q. Met the
battery on the road about 10 P.M. and led it to new position.
Work of getting guns in, ammunition and stores dumped, and
teams away completed by 3 A.M. Awaited dawn.

_July 6._—As soon as it was light went up the hill on the right
front of the battery to meet the colonel, choose an O.P. and
‘learn’ the country. The scene of wreckage upon this hill now
is past all belief, and is, I should imagine, a perfect example
of the havoc wrought by a modern ‘intense’ bombardment. The
whole face of the earth is completely altered. On the German
side of No Man’s Land, not one square yard of the original
surface of the ground remains unbroken. Line upon line of
trenches and tunnels and saps have been so smashed that they
are barely recognisable as such: there are mine craters seventy
to a hundred yards across, and there are dug-outs (some of
these still intact) which go down fifty feet and more into the
chalk. On every side is débris—rails, timber, kit, blankets,
broken rifles, bread, steel helmets, pumps, respirators,
corpses. And nowhere can one get away from the sickening
smell—the smell of putrescent human flesh....

The morning mist cleared at last and we were able to see the
landscape. From the O.P. we chose, the view, for our purposes,
was ideal. Below us lay the ruins that once were Fricourt, to
the right Fricourt Wood, farther off Mametz Wood and village,
and on the skyline Contalmaison. Returned, very dishevelled,
to breakfast at 8 A.M. During the morning ran out a wire,
got ‘through’ to the battery, but did not dare to start
shooting until further information as to the situation of the
infantry was available. Eventually gathered that we only hold
the southern edge of Mametz Wood, and that the Quadrangle
Trench which lies to the left (west) of it is not yet in our
possession. Spent the afternoon registering the guns, and
then began shelling Mametz Wood. Was relieved by the Child at
tea-time. Came down to the battery and washed. Looked forward
to decent night’s rest but was disappointed, viz.:

_July 7._—Woken by Angelo at 1 A.M., who brought orders for a
‘strafe,’ which was to start at 2. Battery fired at a rapid
rate from that hour till 2.30. Went back to bed. Woken by the
Infant, who had relieved Angelo, at 6. Big bombardment to
start at 7.20. Went to telephone dug-out at 7.15, unwashed and
half-dressed, and remained there all day; meals brought in to
me. The battery fired practically continuously for fourteen
hours at rates varying from one to twenty-four rounds a minute.
Targets various—mostly ‘barraging’ Mametz Wood and ground
immediately to the west of it. Worked the detachments as far as
possible in reliefs, turning on spare signallers, cooks, and
servants to carry ammunition as it arrived.

The Child, who was at the O.P., sent down what information
he could, but reported that it was hardly possible to see
anything owing to the smoke. Passed on everything to Brigade
H.Q. (communications working well), and received their
instructions as to changes of target, rate of fire, etc. By
dusk we were all very tired, and several of the men stone deaf.
There were several heavy showers during the day, so that the
position became a quagmire into which the guns sank almost to
their axles and became increasingly difficult to serve. Empty
cartridge cases piled several feet high round each platform:
mud awful. No official communiqué as to result of the day’s
operation. Got eight hours’ sleep.

_July 8._—Shooting, off and on, all day—mostly registration of
new points. In the intervals when not firing the detachments
kept hard at work improving and strengthening the position.
Hostile artillery much more active, but nothing really close
to us. Fired 150 rounds during the night into Mametz Wood:
northern portion not yet in our hands.

_July 9._—A good deal of barrage work all day, but as it was
mostly at a slow rate the men managed to get some rest—goodness
knows, they both need and deserve it.

_July 10._—Went out with the colonel to reconnoitre an advanced
position. Got caught in a barrage, and had to crouch in a
(fortunately) deep trench for half an hour. Sitting there began
to wonder if this was the prelude to a counter-attack; just
then, looking out to the left, that is towards the south-west
corner of Mametz Wood, saw a lot of men running hard. Suddenly
spotted the familiar grey uniform and spiked helmets of the
enemy.

‘God!’ I cried, ‘it _is_ a counter-attack. Those are _Huns_!’
Expected every moment to have one peering in over the top of
the trench: did not dare to run for it, owing to the barrage,
which was still heavy. T⸺, who was with me, remained calm and
put up his glasses.

‘All right,’ he said; ‘they’re prisoners. Look at the escort.’

And so they were, running for their lives through their own
shrapnel—and the escort keeping well up with them!

The storm being over (no ‘hate’ lasts for ever), returned
as quickly as we could, and reported that the position was
possible but by no means tempting! A lot of night firing.

_July 11._—Set out with the Child, two sergeants, and my trusty
‘look-out man’ to look for a more favourable spot. After a good
deal of walking about found one, a fairly snug place (though
pitted with shell holes).

Intended to reconnoitre for an O.P. in the front edge of
Mametz Wood, but met a colonel just back from those parts who
assured us that the enemy front line ran there. Reluctantly (!)
we abandoned the enterprise and returned. At 6 P.M. the Child
started off with a digging party to prepare the new position.
Move of the battery ordered for 9.30, then postponed till
10.30. Road crowded with infantry and transport; progress slow.
To be mounted and at the head of a column of twelve six-horse
teams is a very different thing from being alone and ready to
slip behind a wall or into a trench if occasion calls for it.
Luck was on our side, however, and we got through before any
shells came.

Occupied the position quickly, emptied the ammunition wagons,
and got the horses clear without casualties. The Child reported
that a few four-twos had come pretty close while he and his
party were digging and had stopped their work for a while:
nevertheless, quite a lot already done. Time now 12.30. Turned
on every available man and continued digging till dawn. Men
very beat, but not a word of grousing.

_July 12._—At dawn went up to find a new O.P.: took the Child
and two signallers, the latter laying a wire as they went.
Found excellent place with good general view in an old German
redoubt. Trenches, however, crammed with sleeping infantry,
over whom one had to step, and under whom the signallers had
to pass their line! Thick mist till 8 A.M., when light became
good enough to start on our task, which was to cut through the
wire at a certain spot in the German main second line north
of Mametz Wood. Observation difficult, as we were rather far
back and the whole line was being heavily bombarded by our
‘heavies.’ About 10.30 what was apparently an excursion party
of generals and staff officers arrived to see the fun, crowded
us out of our bay in the trench and lined up, with their heads
and red hat-bands exposed. Lay down in a corner and tried
to sleep, but got trodden on so abandoned the idea. Shoon
(another of my youthful subalterns) came up to relieve us at
2.30, so the Child and I returned to the battery and got about
three hours’ sleep. The detachments with amazing industry and
endurance again hard at work digging. A good deal of hostile
fire all round us, especially close to the nullah, but nothing
within 200 yards of the guns.

About 5.30 P.M. Shoon rang up from the O.P. to say that he
and a signaller had been wounded. Angelo went up to take his
place. Poor old Shoon, when he arrived down, was pretty shaken.
Evidently the crowd of spectators previously remarked upon had
attracted the attention of some cross Boche gunner. A five-nine
dropped just beside the O.P. and knocked both signallers and
Shoon, who was observing his wire-cutting at the moment, head
over heels back into the trench below. While they were picking
themselves up out of the débris a salvo landed on the parados
immediately behind them. One signaller was untouched (and
rescued his precious telephone), the other was badly cut about
the head and leg and departed on a stretcher—a good man too.
Shoon got a scratch on his forehead and some splinters into his
left arm. Swore he was all right, but since he didn’t look it
was ordered to bed.

Ammunition replenished in the evening in a tearing hurry. It is
not pleasant to have teams standing about in a place like this.
Heard that on the return journey to the wagon line last night a
bombardier, four drivers, and five horses had been wounded—all
slightly, thank Heaven!

Shot all night at the wood (Bazentin-le-petit), and at the
front line.

_July 13._—Continued wire-cutting and searching the wood all
day. Scores of batteries doing the same thing, and noise
infernal. The Child went off to find out if he could see the
wire from the front edge of Mametz Wood (which now really is
in our possession). Failing to see it from there, he wandered
on up an old communication trench known as Middle Alley, which
led direct from our own to the German front line. Eventually
he found a place from which he could see through a gap in
the hedge. The wire was cut all right—and, incidentally, he
might have come face to face with a hostile bombing party at
any moment! But what seemed to interest him much more was the
behaviour of the orderly who had accompanied him. This N.C.O.,
who is the battery ‘look-out man,’ specially trained to observe
anything and everything, raised himself from the ground a
moment after they had both hurled themselves flat to await the
arrival of a five-nine in Mametz Wood, peered over a fallen
tree-trunk and said, ‘_That_ one, sir, was just in front, but
slightly to the left’!

Spent the afternoon preparing detailed orders and time-tables
for to-morrow’s ‘big show.’ Slept from 11 till 2.45 A.M.

_July 14._—The ‘intense’ bombardment began at 3.20 A.M.; the
infantry attack was launched five minutes later. Even to
attempt to describe this bombardment is beyond me. All that
can be said is that there was such a _hell_ of noise that it
was quite impossible to give any orders to the guns except
by sending subalterns from the telephone dug-out to shout in
the ear of each sergeant in turn. The battery (in company
with perhaps a hundred others) barraged steadily, ‘lifting’
fifty yards at a time from 3.25 till 7.15 A.M., by which
time some 900 rounds had been expended and the paint on the
guns was blistering from their heat. We gathered (chiefly
from information supplied by the Child at the O.P., who got
into touch with various staff and signal officers) that the
attack had been very successful. About 7.30 things slowed
down a little and the men were able to get breakfast and some
rest—half at a time, of course.

At midday cavalry moved up past us and affairs began to look
really promising. Slept from 3 to 5 P.M., then got orders to
reconnoitre an advanced position in front of Acid Drop Copse.
(It may here be noted that from our first position this very
copse was one of our most important targets at a range of
nearly 4000 yards.) Chose a position, but could see that if and
when we do occupy it, it is not going to be a health-resort.
And, owing to the appalling state of the ground, it will take
some driving to get there. Had a really good night’s rest for
once. Battery fired at intervals all night.

_July 15._—Attack continued. By 10.30 A.M. our guns had reached
extreme range and we were forced to stop. (We started at 2700
in this position.) News very good: enemy much demoralised and
surrendering freely. Practically no hostile shelling round us
now—in fact, we are rather out of the battle for the moment.
After lunch formed up the whole battery and thanked the men for
the splendid way that they had worked. Shoon, whose arm has got
worse, sent under protest to hospital. Desperately sorry to
lose him.

In the afternoon switched to the left, where we are apparently
still held up, and fired occasional salvos on Martinpuich.
Ditto all night.

_July 16._—Everybody much concerned over a certain Switch
Trench, which appears to be giving much trouble. Fired
spasmodically (by map) on this trench throughout the day. In
the evening all guns removed to a travelling Ordnance Workshop
for overhaul—they need it. Late at night received orders to dig
the Acid Drop Copse position next day, and occupy it as soon as
the guns are sent back.

_July 17._—Took all officers and practically every man up to
new position at 7 A.M. and started to dig. Shells all round
us while we worked, but still no damage. This is too good to
last. In the afternoon went out with George (another B.C.[2]
in the brigade), the Child, and a telephonist to look for an
O.P. whence to see this infernal Switch Trench. After a while
parted from George, whom we last saw walking _forward_ from
the villa, pausing occasionally to examine the country through
his glasses. We learnt afterwards that he spent a really happy
afternoon in No Man’s Land carrying various wounded infantrymen
into comparative safety! For which he has been duly recommended.

Got into the old German second line (taken on the 14th),
and found that it had been so completely battered by our
bombardment that its captors had been obliged to dig an
entirely new trench in front of it. This part of the world was
full of gunner officers _all_ looking for an O.P. for Switch
Trench. Returned to Acid Drop Copse about 5 P.M. and found
that the digging had progressed well. Marched the men back to
the old position, where they got tea and a rest. Teams came up
about 8. Packed up and moved forward. Ground so desperately
heavy that it became necessary to put ten horses in a team for
the last pull up the hill to the position. Got all guns into
action and twenty-one wagon loads of ammunition dumped by 11
P.M.—no casualties. Work of the men, who were much worn out,
beyond all praise.

The noise in this place is worse than anything previously
experienced. Being, as we are now, the most advanced battery in
this particular sector, we get the full benefit of every gun
that is behind us—and there are many. Moreover, the hostile
artillery is extremely active, especially in the wood, where
every shell comes down with a hissing rush that ends in an
appalling crash. About midnight the Boche began to put over
small ‘stink’ shells. These seemed to flit through the air, and
always landed with a soft-sounding ‘phutt’ very like a dud. One
burst just behind our trench and wounded a gunner in the foot.
Found it impossible to sleep, owing to the din.

_July 18._—At 4 A.M. the hostile bombardment seemed so intense
that, fearing a counter-attack, I got up to look round. Was
reassured by Angelo, who had already done so. Beyond the
fact that the wood was being systematically searched with
five-nines, there was nothing much doing. Returned to bed, but
still failed to sleep.

Fired at intervals throughout the day at various spots allotted
by Brigade H.Q. Having no O.P. had to do everything from the
map. Men all digging when not actually firing: position now
nearly splinter-proof. A most unnerving day, however. A Hun
barrage of ‘air-crumps’ on the ridge in front of us by the
Cutting, another one to our right along the edge of the wood,
many five-nines over our heads into the dip behind us, and
quite a few into Acid Drop Copse on our left rear.

In the afternoon we had half a dozen H.E. ‘pip-squeaks’ very
close at a moment when there were three wagons up replenishing
ammunition. One burst within four yards of the lead horses—and
no damage. This _cannot_ last. Orders for a big attack received
at 4 P.M. At 5 counter-orders to the effect that we are to be
relieved to-night. Fired continuously till about 8.30, then
packed up and waited for the teams, which arrived about 9.

We were just congratulating ourselves on our luck, it being
then rather a quiet moment and three out of the four teams
already on the move, when a big ‘air-crump’ burst straight
above our heads, wounding the sergeant-major in the thigh. Put
him up on the last limber and sent the guns off as fast as they
could go—ground too bad to gallop. Two more shells followed
us down the valley, but there were no further casualties. At
the bottom missed the Child: sent to inquire if he was at the
head of the column—no. Was beginning to get nervous, when he
strolled up from the rear, accompanied by the officers’-mess
cook.

‘Pity to leave these behind,’ he observed, throwing down a
kettle and a saucepan!

Nervy work loading up our stores and kits on to the G.S. wagon,
but the enemy battery had returned to its favourite spot by the
Cutting, and nothing further worried us. Marched back to the
wagon line (about five miles). Much amused by the tenacity with
which one of the sergeants clung to a jar of rum which he had
rescued from the position.[3] At the wagon line collected the
whole battery together, and while waiting went across to see
the sergeant-major in the dressing-station. Am afraid, though
it is nothing serious, that it will be a case of ‘Blighty’
for him. A very serious loss to the battery, as he has been
absolutely invaluable throughout this show.