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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 They passed through the gateway. “Do you know if General
Ballardyce is here?” asked Stark of a big man, chaplain’s cross on his
cap.
“No, I don’t,” answered the parson. “Who the hell is General
Ballardyce?”
They searched the farm, gloomy outhouse after gloomy
outhouse. Everywhere lay the wounded, brown shapes, moaning
and wailing. Finally, they found steps; stumbled down them into an
underground cellar. The place looked, smelt, was a charnel house.
The reek of it struck Peter like a blow. Reek of blood! Blood
everywhere. Bloody forms lying on bloody sacks. Bloody bandages in
bloody buckets. A man with bloody hands stooping over bloody
flesh.
“Let’s get out of this,” rasped Stark. . . .
Once more they stood outside the farm, among the chugging
cars, the moaning wounded. A form approached them. A voice asked
“Are you General Ballardyce?”
“I am not,” said Colonel Stark.
The form materialized into a pale-faced subaltern, whom Peter
recognized.
“Aren’t you Rutton of the Chalkshires?”
“Yes. Jameson, isn’t it? I say, I wish you could help me. I’ve got
all the travelling cookers of the 2nd Infantry Brigade just up the
road. And I’ve been ordered to rendezvous with them at Haisnes
Church at dawn. . . .”
“Haisnes is three miles away from here; and it’s inside the Boche
lines, young man,” interrupted Stark.
“I know, sir. But I’ve got written orders.” He fumbled inside his
coat, produced a message-form. Stark flashed a torch on it. “You
see, sir. It’s quite clear. What am I to do, sir?”
“Use your common sense, young man. You can’t charge the
Boche with your sanguinary kitchens. . . .”
An orderly stumbled up; saluted Rutton; said, “The General’s
been gone three hours, sir. One of the doctors just remembered him
riding up and riding off again.”
“What am I to do, sir?” wailed Rutton.
 But Stark was indulging himself in one real outburst: a frothing
torrent of scarlet blasphemy that submerged every gilded head
between Saint Omer and the Pylons of Loos. . . .
 §4
Men under fire for the first time are not usually frightened.
Peter, re-walking the muddy road between those wailing
wounded, was conscious of no fear. His orders—to find the horses,
take them back through Vermelles and rejoin his Colonel at the
cross-roads which the map called Corons de Rutoire—seemed simple
enough. But he was in a black rage at the incompetence of those
behind; and he cursed them as he pashed into the greasy trench,
hauled himself out of it, tried to locate that hay-stack.
Damn that hay-stack! Where the devil could it have moved to?
He saw the thing suddenly, outlined black against the saffron of a
shell-burst; saw the silhouettes of horses rearing at their bridles;
dashed forward. As he reached the two men, he heard the whistle of
another shell; heard it stop, plop into the ground. No detonation
followed.
“By the Lord an’ I’m glad to see you, sir,” ejaculated the shadow
of Driver Doherty, “I’ve been thinking we’d be killed every minute.”
“You will be if you don’t hurry up,” snapped Peter, swinging
himself straight from the ground to his saddle. “Up you get, both of
you.”
Unthinking, he put spurs to Little Willie; set off at a hand-canter;
turned in his saddle; saw the Colonel’s groom struggling with the big
chestnut. The old ostler had caught his right leg against the
unaccustomed rifle-bucket; couldn’t get it across the saddle of his
own horse. Jelks was in the act of mounting. Peter wrenched his
horse’s head round; galloped back; threw the man somehow into his
seat. Another shell whistled over, plopped harmless into the ground.
The Colonel’s chestnut reared.
“For God’s sake get a move on,” roared P.J., and slashed the
groom’s mount over the croup with his heavy riding-stick. The old
man and his two horses shot forward down the track; Peter and
Jelks followed at a gallop.
 They came unscathed to the road; slowed to a trot, Peter taking
the lead. No more shells followed: the road was deserted. They
crossed the railway, swung left, arrived suddenly in an empty
square. Above them rose the skeleton of a church tower. Peter
pulled up; took out his map; flashed torch at it. The grooms joined
him.
“You can’t stop here, sir.” A sentry popped up amazingly from
nowhere.
“Why not?”
“Road’s being shelled every two minutes. One’s just about. . . .”
The whizz-bang gave no warning. Even as Peter flung up his arm to
cover his face, he saw it hit the ground ten yards in front, detonate
blue in the dust. Little Willie reared straight up; Peter flung himself
forward on the horse’s neck; gave him his head. He came down
again; stood shivering.
“Anybody hurt?” asked P.J.
“No, sir.”
“Then come on.”
Behind them, they heard shells bursting; in front, the road lay
deserted between shattered houses. They trotted past a level
crossing; came on confusion beyond belief.
In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars,
motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no
traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the
road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed,
wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had
broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were
cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are
you the Suffolks?”
Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the
cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark.
“Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the
Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of
the Brigade, did you?”
“No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.”
“They’re not due yet.”
 Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands
pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled
out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up.
“What about General Ballardyce, sir?”
“God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these
infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away
long.”
Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin
against a vehicle. “Who’s that?”
“Cookers. Second Southdown Infantry Brigade,” answered
Rutton’s voice. “I say that Colonel of yours is a brick.”
“Oh, to hell with you and your cookers,” said Peter, and plodded
on again. He had been sweating: now the perspiration began to dry.
Also the black rage was on him again. He heard the jingle of bits in
the darkness; somebody shouted “Halt!” A shell, out of sight,
crashed to ground. Then somebody called out from his horse, “I say,
you with the cigar?”
“Yes,” answered Peter.
“Can you tell me where I am?”
“Who are you?”
“Southdown Yeomanry.”
Peter gave the information; and added, “I should get out of this
if I were you. It’s no place for Cavalry.”
Asked the somebody, “Have I your permission to retire, sir?”
And Peter Jameson, Adjutant of the 4th Southdown Brigade, who
had as much right to order Yeomanry out of action as Driver Jelks,
said—without a quiver in his voice—“You have”; listened, cigar in
mouth, to the somebody’s “Walk—March,” to the jingle of bits and
the creak of accoutrements; saw the last file of that squadron
disappear into the darkness.
“Discipline be sugared,” thought P.J. “A child could see that this
isn’t the place for Divisional Cavalry.”
He plodded on, enquiring of all he met: “Have you seen General
Ballardyce?” But nobody he met had either seen, heard of, smelt or
felt the missing General of the 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade.
 §5
Meanwhile, Lieutenant-Colonel Douglas Stark, D.S.O. R.A.,
ruminated at the roadside. In front of him, the amazing traffic
disentangled itself somehow; moved forward, a grotesque shadow-
show, through the darkness. Behind him, he heard the jingle of
harness, a battery moving forward over turf. He called out, “Who are
you?” “B Battery 3rd Southdown Brigade,” came the answer. The
battery disappeared. . . .
Stark began to reason out his position. He knew Ballardyce of
old: a sound fellow, the last person to disregard detail. Therefore,
Ballardyce had not been told to keep touch with his guns at Le
Rutoire. Point one settled. Point two—Murchison’s cryptic orders
about the forward move. Murchison was over-conscientious in the
transmission of orders. Followed that Murchison had practically no
information. Point two settled. And with that—added to his own
private telephone-talk to the Brigade Major of Seventh Artillery—
Stark arrived at a definite conclusion: The blunder lay further back
than either Southdown or Seventh Division Headquarters.
Obviously. Because Rutton’s order to rendezvous with firstline
transport at a village still in possession of the enemy, proved an
entire misconception of the battle-front. . . .
The Weasel had not wasted the hour it had taken his Adjutant to
find the horses and return with them to the cross-roads. He had
spent it in reconnoitring, as far as possible, the immediate ground;
in acquiring miscellaneous scraps of information.
Remained three problems—the exact position of our own front
line, which section of it he would be asked to protect, and where to
plant his batteries.
And the Weasel thought: “This road runs straight into Loos
village. There are no shells coming from that direction. We are
supposed to have taken Loos. I think we have. Beyond Loos”—he
consulted his map—“is this Hill 70. The chances are we have not
taken Hill 70. There is a lot of hostile artillery fire coming from my
left front. . . .”
He timed with his watch the period between the discharges of
the guns and the shell bursts over Vermelles. . . . “Those guns are
not much over two thousand yards from me. I know for certain,
because of the targets we were firing at this evening, that the centre
of our original attack was held up: and if P.J.’s information about City
Saint Élie was correct. . . .”
“And by Jove it was correct.” The Weasel suddenly broke into
speech. “That gun-fire proves it. As sure as God made little apples
I’m sitting on the base-line of a semi-circle, plum in the middle of a
five-mile salient.”
Then he took out his compass; laid it on the ground till the
needle steadied; and turned due west. “Damn it,” said the Weasel,
“what’s happened to the Véry Lights? . . .” And even as he spoke,
directly to the south of him, he caught a faint white shimmer in the
sky; and even as that faded, due north of him, he caught the barest
glimpse of another.
“Oh, hell!” thought the Weasel. “Oh, ruddy hell!”
Down the road behind him, headlamp flaring recklessly, dodging
in and out among the traffic, a motor-cycle phutted its jolting way.
The Weasel jumped into the middle of the road; stood there, coat
open, arms outstretched. The cyclist halted, dropping one leg to the
ground.
“D.R.L.S.?” asked the Weasel.
“Yes, sir. I’m in a hurry.”
“To hell with your hurry. Put that blasted lamp out. Now wait.”
The Weasel shaded the Orilux torch at his belt; drew a message-pad
from his pocket; inserted the carbon; began to write. And while he
wrote, very meticulously, he thought of the Brigade he had trained
so carefully, of his wife and the life she carried, and of a certain
individual at St. Omer who would not be displeased if Weasel Stark
happened to make a mistake. . . . For in the bigger affairs of earth,
as in the smaller, it is easier to break a subordinate than admit one’s
own failure. . . .
 “Sign on the message-form, please,” rasped the Weasel, holding
his hand over the meticulous words. Then he tore off the top copy,
and stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed, marking the
time of dispatch on the space provided, to: “B.M. Southdown Div.
Arty.”
“And now,” rasped the Weasel, “why the devil didn’t you shout
out who your message was for? Don’t you know your job?”
“O.C. 4th Southdown Brigade R.F.A., sir,” said the cyclist. “He’s at
Le Rutoire farm, sir. . . .”
“Is he?” said the Weasel; and opening the envelope, began to
read: “Further to my B.M. 764, through 7 D.A., please report by
bearer map-references of your batteries and what time G.O.C. 2nd
I.B. proposes to attack. . . .”
“Why didn’t Davson or Hathway bring this?” asked the Colonel.
“I don’t know, sir. I only joined Divisional H.Q. this morning.”
The Weasel turned the torch on his own face: “You’ll know me
next time, young man. Now buzz off.”
“I was told to wait for an answer, sir,” said the cyclist, slipping the
empty envelope, signed for evidence of receipt, into the case slung
at his side.
“You’ve got your answer,” rasped the Weasel. “Buzz off; and be
quick about it.”
“Don’t switch on that headlamp till you reach Vermelles,” the
great voice boomed like a megaphone through the phutting
darkness.
 §6
One o’clock a. m. on the morning of the 26th. A drizzle of rain.
Stretching a mile down the road from Corons de Rutoire, its last
water-cart just clear of the shell-fire on the Vermelles railway-
crossing, waits a long column of dripping horses, loaded vehicles
and weary men. The men are dismounted. They stand, gunners by
gun-wheels, drivers at horses’ heads. “What’s happening, Joe? I
dunno. Wish we could smoke. Where’s the old man? Up in front!
Anyone hit in your lot? Only our Number one’s horse. Just a
splinter. . . .” Laughter. . . . “Bet he danced a bit. Who bound it up?
The Doc. Good for the Doc. He ought to be at Number Nine Hospital.
What-ho!”
At the head of the column stands a little red-headed man;
Adjutant by his side; round him, his four battery commanders:
Torrington, dropping with fatigue; Lodden, very calm, all his
irascibility vanished in the presence of crisis; Bromley, twirling brown
moustaches; Major Lethbridge, the newcomer, a tiny fat man with a
weak mouth and unsteady eyes, fidgeting his riding-switch.
“Well, that’s the position,” says the Weasel. “We can’t move
forward because we haven’t got guides and God knows where the
trench-bridges are. We can’t go back, because Ballardyce has
obviously been ordered to attack. Therefore, though we may get it
pretty hot if the Boche is still in Fosse Eight tomorrow morning, I
intend to stop where I am. There’s an old trench just in front of us;
the parados will give us a bit of cover.”
“But what about the horses, Colonel?” from Torrington.
“They’ll have to stop with the guns till dawn anyway. If the front
line gives, we shall be liable to want our teams in a hurry. Well,
gentlemen, if nobody has anything better to suggest. . . .” A
silence. . . . “All right. Jameson, you’d better go with Bromley and
mark for the right of the Brigade. Batteries to come up one at a time
in column of route. Action left. Get your guns as close to the trench
as you can. Usual intervals if possible. Teams to remain with the
guns till dawn. Purves. . . .”
“Yes, sir.” The Balliol man appears out of the darkness.
“Tell H.Q. to walk their horses forward to that hay-stack. See it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Unhook the telephone-wagon and the M. O.’s[13] cart. Send your
horses a hundred yards to the rear, and report to me when its done.
Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”

[13] Medical Officer.

 §7
If ever man in a tight corner drew comfort from good work done
in the past, it was Weasel Stark as he stood alone that night, and
watched this entity of his creating file past him in the darkness.
Very quietly they came, team after toiling team, gun after
creaking gun, subaltern after subaltern leading his section to their
marked position—O’Grady, Archdale, Pettigrew, Straker, Conway,
Merrilees, Hall and Hutchinson. One by one the teams were
unhooked, led away; one by one the guns swung round, muzzles
across the gaping trench. And about each gun, as it dropped into
position, men laboured, men very weary of labour, with pick and
shovel and sand-bag, making what cover they might against the
dawn.
And till dawn began, up and down among the labouring men,—
the orders he had anticipated received at last—strode the Weasel,
rasping across the darkness: “Dig! you blight-hawks. For the Lord’s
sake, dig!”
PART SIXTEEN
ACTION LEFT!
 §1
Daylight revealed an irregular line of fifteen field-guns and
limbers, weary men piling sandbags round their wheels. Already the
sandbags had risen to the gun-axles.
The line of guns lay in the centre of a great shallow saucer of
ground, scarred with zig-zag trenches; and as the first blue of dawn
cleared to white, the men who laboured could see, straight to their
front and on the lip of the saucer, the shattered top of a solitary
tree. And looking to the left of the tree, they saw,—first of all—a
road, and then a big battered farm-house, beyond which—miles
away as it seemed to the weary men—rose over the ultimate edge
of the huge saucer a something which Gunner Mucksweat, miner by
trade, pronounced to be the wheel of a pithead. Had Gunner
Mucksweat been able to read a map, he would have known the
pithead wheel for the top of Fosse Eight.
Prolonging the line of guns on the left ran the road they had
traversed during the night—at its end, the torn roofs of Vermelles;
and behind the guns, bunched together over a square mile of
ground, stood horses—hundreds and hundreds of horses. For the
fourth Southdown Brigade was not alone in that huge saucer of
chalk! And behind the horses, parallel to the guns, lay another road,
lined with red brick houses, above which towered the huge slag-
cone of Fosse Seven.
 §2
The toe of a boot woke 2nd Lieutenant Stanley Purves to
consciousness of the fact that he was sleeping in the lee of a
particularly noisome hay-stack.
“Get up,” said P.J. “The Colonel wants you.”
“What’s the time?” asked the thing under the hay.
“Half-past four.”
“My grief, what a time to get up!”
He struggled to his feet, pulling wet wisps from his hair; realized
that he could hardly walk for cramp; limped forward; stumbled over
a low stretcher on two-cycle wheels, into the shafts of a hooded cart
painted with a large Red Cross.
“Anybody want me?” Doctor Carson, a light sleeper, pushed his
white head out from the tilt; saw Purves making for the guns.
“Suppose I’d better get up,” said the Doctor; and in doing so, woke
Horrocks the Vet. They cursed each other, and stepped out onto the
wet ground.
Said Purves, returning: “The Weasel wants his breakfast, and he
wants it damn quick.” He limped off to find Gunner Horne, found him
asleep under the spidery telephone-waggon. Him, by right of
seniority, Purves kicked also. Moreover, after a careful
reconnaissance, the Balliol man discovered two foreign-looking boots
projecting from the afore-said hay-stack, which—being sternly pulled
—produced Morency.
Meanwhile the four battery commanders—Torrington, hobbling
along somehow in the rear—followed by two men carrying a red
drum of wire, were toiling up the slope towards “Lone Tree.”
 §3
“Have you been smoking those cab-rankers of yours all night,
P.J.?” asked the Weasel.
They were standing in the middle of the gun-line, watching
Charlie Straker as he bent over the pointer of his No. 1 director.
“I should lay on that tree till you hear from Torrington,” said
Stark; and repeated his question to Peter.
“Pretty well, sir.”
“I wonder they don’t make you sick. Had any sleep?”
“No, sir.”
They looked at each other, the two unshaven men; and both
laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. Whatever else
happened, the fourth Brigade was at least in position. Merrilees,
solemn as an owl, came up with “Mr. Conway’s compliments” and
“should he lay his guns on that tree”; departed with his instructions.
By now, sticks were crackling in the deserted trench, tea boiling
and bacon sizzling. Weary men struggled into their tunics; ate and
drank gratefully. “Keep ’em at it,” said the Weasel, as they passed
the last gun on their way to breakfast. “Very good, sir,” answered
horsy Hutchinson; and added sotto voce, “what the devil does the
old man think we’re all made of—pigskin!” . . .
“Rotten job, driving tired men, isn’t it, P.J.?” said the Weasel,
balancing himself—mug in hand—on the shafts of the doctor’s cart.
“But I don’t like the look of that,” he pointed to the far pit-wheel,
“and I don’t like the look of this,” he indicated the cross-roads, “in
fact, entre nous, the more I see of things all round, the less I like
any of ’em.”
Half way through breakfast, Peter—called to the telephone—
heard Lodden’s voice. They had made out, roughly, the infantry’s
position; were coming back. Would Peter send up O’Grady and one
other subaltern to observe? At half-past six, the four battery
commanders returned. It was still too misty for shooting.
 Appeared, on a frisky charger, red hat glowing, eagerness
personified, Murchison the Brigade Major. He waved a large white
map at the Weasel; pointed with his finger to a wriggly red line on it.
“We want you to open fire on that trench, Colonel. Fire as much as
you like: but don’t fire a round after 10:30; because the Infantry are
going to charge then.”
“Who’s going to cut the enemy wire?” To Peter, overhearing, the
tired voice sounded very serious.
“Oh, that’ll be all right.” Murchison galloped off.
The right-hand gun of the Brigade shot out a tongue of flame; a
sandbag dropped from its parapet. O’Grady, beyond the crest, had
begun his ranging.
Appeared, on a quiet brown mare, Coolsdon, the Staff Captain.
He, too, had a white map in his hand; indicated a target.
“Oh, if Murchison’s been here,” said Coolsdon; and galloped
off. . . .
Now, all round the great saucer of chalk, men bent to telephone
receivers. “Add 100. Five minutes more right,” shouted the men, and
voices down the gun-line repeated, “Add 100. Five minutes more
right.” The thing that ballooned slowly into the air behind Fosse
Eight, could not hear the shouting men; but it could see, vaguely
through the low mist, tiny sparks of fire in the great saucer!
 §4
“Three rounds Battery-fire. One-O seconds.” “Stop.” “Add twenty-
five.” “Two rounds Battery fire, One-O seconds.” “Go on.” “At Battery
fire, sweep one five minutes.”
Up and down the long line, men stood shouting, men jerked
triggers, muzzles roared and recoiled, shells leapt to open breech,
breech-blocks twirled home, gunners—knees astride—clung to
rocking seats. And round the rocking, roaring guns, deafened men
still toiled with pick and shovel at the sandbag epaulments.
Batteries were firing independently: and Stark, mackintosh
spread on the parados of a crumbling trench, watched them without
a word. He felt a hand on his arm; saw two fingers and a cigar
pointing over his shoulder, forward and upward through the gun-
flashes. “See that sausage, sir,” shouted P.J. in his ear.
The Weasel looked round at his Adjutant: the Adjutant flickered
an eye towards the crowded horse-lines.
“Behind those houses,” rasped the Weasel. “Get ’em away quietly,
or they’ll panic. And tell ’em to post a look-out man to watch for
signals.”
“Not bad for a civilian,” thought the Weasel as he watched Peter
stroll calmly to the haystack, tap Horrocks on the shoulder.
The balloon had gone down again; guns were still firing; and
across the fields—veterinary officer’s white breeches at their head—
filed at a walk the horses of the Headquarters Staff. Now, in and out
among the tethered teams at the battery horse-lines, cigar in mouth,
strode a stocky figure, whispering, “Hook in and get away quietly.
Behind those houses. At a walk, please, Quartermaster Sergeant.”
Like figures in a quadrille, the bays and browns and blacks of the
teams, the dark green of the ammunition wagons, curved to slow
life; emerged into four long lines that unrolled steadily across the
dun fields to safety. But as the lines drew clear, they revealed behind
them, low dark bunches in the middle distance; other horses—
hundreds and hundreds of horses. . . .
 “Ich kann nicht genau sehen,” mumbled a guttural voice three
and a half miles away, “aber am Dreiweg finden wir sicher etwas.
Also, los damit, lieber Oberleutnant.” . . .
Peter heard, above the roar of his own guns, a high shrill scream;
saw a black fountain spurt from the ground three hundred yards in
front. The Weasel was on his feet, hands to mouth, “Take cover,”
roared the Weasel. “Take cover. All except gun-numbers into the
trench.” For the diggers had stopped work, stood staring at the
dropping fountain.
Rose another scream up the sky. . . . “Get down, you fools, get
down.” Now the Weasel was half way along the flashing line. . . .
The scream came shrieking to earth, stopped. A hundred yards in
front, a few clods leapt from the ground. “Under cover. . . . Under
cover.” . . . Like rabbits to burrow men popped to earth. . . . But still
the guns went on.
Peter, kneeling behind quivering sandbags, was conscious of a
mule braying high in air, of a second’s deadly silence, of a thudding
crash; felt a rush of air at his ears; saw something slice the sandbag
at his side as a knife slices cheese, plunge into the turf. . . . Then he
heard fragments pattering on the hard earth behind him; looked up;
and saw, a hundred yards away, standing upright, hands in his
pockets, the Weasel; and the Weasel was still shouting “Under cover,
you fools, get under cover.” The gun behind which Peter had knelt,
went off with a crash. . . .
“My aunt,” he thought.
Except for the Colonel’s figure, nothing moved behind the guns.
Purves and the Doctor, noses to ground, were lying flat against the
haystack. Very high in air, another shell went howling on its way.
Peter, following the noise with his eyes, found dark clumps of
horses; was conscious noise ceased; saw a great black earth-spout
shoot up among the horses; heard the double crash of shell’s
alighting; saw terrified teams rear and plunge; saw little figures
hurling themselves at bridles. . . .
Another shell swished over; and another; plunged to ground in
rear of him. The whole middle distance seemed a mass of
stampeding beasts that hurled themselves through black fountains
across the plains.
“Didn’t you hear me say get under cover, you sanguinary cigar-
merchant?” rasped a voice at his ear. . . .
 §5
“Another five minutes,” ordered the Weasel. “Tell ’em they can go
to gun-fire if they like.”
Hostile shelling had ceased. Only, far away over the roofs of
Vermelles, an occasional gray puff-ball betokened shrapnel. Sun
shone on bare plain behind, on bare crest in front. Round the farm,
little figures moved.
Torrington, V.C., pale and shaky, lay in the bottom of the recess
between his sections: “What’s that, Sergeant Major?” he asked the
man standing behind him. “Colonel says we can go to gun-fire, sir.”
“All right. Tell ’em five rounds.” “Five rounds gun-fire,” megaphoned
the Sergeant Major. Straker and Pettigrew, kneeling between their
pieces, flung out hands in acknowledgment; repeated the order.
Flames roared above Torrington’s head; chalk pattered down on him
from the trench-walls. “How much longer, Sergeant Major?” “Four
minutes yet, sir.” “Battery fire, till the last minute.” “Right sir. . . . At
Battery fire, go on.”
“God’s teeth,” muttered Torrington, V.C. “I can’t stand this racket
much longer.” . . .
“Stop!”
All round the hollow saucer of ground, noise ceased miraculously.
Only, every now and then, the howitzers roared separately at their
far targets. And from beyond the lip of the saucer came a distant
stutter, as of men swinging gigantic rattles—the chattering of
machine-guns.
Behind the tattered hay-stack, stood a signaller, flags
outstretched. “W N,” wagged the signaller. “W N,” replied far flags at
the corner of the houses under the Fosse Seven. Ammunition
wagons came trotting across the field. . . . Down in the trench, black
instrument in front of him, another signaller buzzed frantically.
“F.O.O.” buzzed the signaller, “F.O.O.” But no answering buzz
sounded in his ears. For the red wire lay frayed beyond the crest-line
—and the guns were blind!
 “This is nice muck-up,” said the Weasel to Lethbridge. “Strict
orders not to fire after ten-thirty. The line dished and the Lord knows
what may be happening.”
A man, telephone-case on his arms, climbed out of the trench;
began making his way up the wire.
At the end of the gun-line, by an emptying ammunition-wagon,
Peter stood talking to Bromley. They looked towards Vermelles.
Suddenly, under a gray smoke-puff they saw a horseman at full
gallop; behind him—drivers bending low in their saddles, whips
plying,—a six-horse team came hell for leather, and behind the team,
a leaping bumping thing on wheels. “Charge of the horse-artillery?”
laughed Bromley. “No,” said Peter, “Lodden’s missing gun.” The team
arrived with a clatter and jingle at the cross-roads. Lodden leapt by.
They heard his furious voice. “Who told you to gallop, Bombardier?
Who the hell told you to gallop?” Drivers grinning from their
sweating mounts, the gun creaked past.
“Hurry up with those shells, you chaps,” said Bromley to his
gunners. . . .
There jog-trotted slowly to the cross-roads a young Staff officer.
He put hand to eyes, shading them from the sun; said, “Good Lord,
it’s Peter”; trotted over to the guns. The horseman in the creaseless
tunic looked very out of place, as he leaned from his saddle talking
to the unshaven tired-eyed Gunners.
“What are you doing up here, Francis?” asked Peter.
“Trying to find Le Rutoire, and a prisoner or two. That’s it, I
suppose.” He switched riding-stick towards the red buildings in front.
“What’s supposed to be happening here—a battle?”
The three stood gossiping. The ammunition wagon, empty of its
contents, wheeled past them; trotted across the field. “Well, so
long,” said Francis, “I must be off.” He puts his horse to a trot. . . .
Peter heard the shell scream; flung himself on his face; heard the
burst of it, the clods falling about him. “Christ!” he thought,
“Francis. . . .”
Bromley, unhurt, was first to reach the bloody kicking heap at the
roadside. Even as he came to it, the kicking legs jerked convulsively
—the beast rolled over—lay still. Peter, rushing up, saw a gaping,
steaming belly, a scarlet boot protruding from it. . . . Together, they
dragged out the tortured thing that had been Francis Gordon. He lay
there, face dead white, just muttering. Only the upper part of his
body seemed human—the rest was blood, blood and dirt.
Across the turf towards him, white hair ruffling in the breeze,
darted the doctor, looked for a second at the thing on the ground.
“Shell-dressings! In my cart. Quick as you can. Case of
instruments. My orderly!” Peter rushed off. . . . He came back
carrying a great armful of lint, to find the doctor and Bromley on
their knees. A boot, bloodsoaked, was lying on the ground. “Cut the
seam,” he heard; and “all right, Doc,” from Bromley. Something
ripped: they were turning over the thing which had been his cousin.
“Dressings,” said the doctor, “thanks.” He took them, began
bandaging the ripped flesh.
Francis opened his eyes; saw Peter standing over him. “Make—
him—give—me—morphia,” gasped Francis. Then pain stunned him;
he lay there, as a shot rabbit lies, eyes still open. . . .
The doctor’s orderly came running, case under his arm.
“Morphia,” said the doctor calmly, not looking up from his work. “Rip
that sleeve, please.” . . .
Blessed needle slid under white flesh: eyes closed. “More
dressings, please,” said Doctor Carson, “and you can be getting up
that wheeled stretcher, Masterson.”
 §6
“Will he live, Doc?” Peter, rather white about the gills, watched
the stretcher down the road, out of sight.
“I’m afraid not. Though mind you, there’s a chance. The left
femur’s broken; that right foot. . . . But there, you saw for yourself.”
“You’d better look after these, P.J.” Bromley handed over a
bundle of papers, a wrist-watch, a morocco leather photograph-case.
Peter stuffed them into his pocket; walked back to the Colonel. He
had been awake so long, the thing had happened so suddenly, that
the fact of the casualty being his cousin hardly touched him. He felt
the horror—but horror numbed, impersonal. . . .
At the Colonel’s side, leaning over from his horse, Peter found
Murchison.
“Any news from your F.O.O.?” asked the Brigade Major.
“No. Wire’s broken. I’m having it repaired. Hallo, what the devil’s
that?”
He pointed to the crest on their right. Little figures, figures of
men running, rose over the skyline; bunched together as they
streaked down the hill. A shell burst black among the figures—a
second shell. And up the slopes towards the figures, galloped
miniature horses with tiny jockeys; and as they reached the crest,
horses silhouetted black against the sky-rim, the jockeys flung
themselves from their saddles; dashed forward out of sight. And still
little men poured back over the hill, past the waiting horses. . . .
“My God,” said Murchison, “I thought at first they must be
Boches.” (For there were two hundred British guns in that great
saucer of ground.) . . .
“My God,” rasped the Weasel, “I wish they had been.” (For it is
not good to watch the unofficial side of history in the making.) . . .
Suddenly, they heard a voice, roaring, “Action”; an orderly
dashed up; “Through to F.O.O. sir.”
“Shrapnel. . . . Four six hundred. . . .” roared the voice. . . . “At
gun-fire sweep five minutes from your zero lines. . . .”
 The rest of the orders were howled down by a hurricane of gun
crashes. . . .
 §7
Beyond the farthest lip of the chalk-saucer; beyond the zig-zag
communication trench; beyond the old front-line, cut deep into the
chalk, studded with empty gas-cylinders, littered with rifles and the
uncleanly débris of war; beyond the lonely tree; beyond the burrow
where O’Grady’s telephonist crouched at his instrument; beyond
sight and touch and hearing, and every human emotion save that
last instinct which is the naked life—lay Second Lieutenant Peabody
of the Chalkshires.
His brown face was gray in the dust. He had no cap. His
outstretched hands were ripped and torn from clutching at rusty
wire. His left puttee had fallen in coils over his boot. And where he
lay, he panted: as a hound pants after the kill.
But Peabody had not been killed. . . .
He became aware of bees, swarms and swarms of bees that
zipped and buzzed about him. Then he felt a terrific tug at his
ankles; felt his face scraping against the ground. Something grabbed
him round the neck; pulled him over backwards.
He wiped the dust out of his eyes and began to curse. The
curses were utterly inhuman. The kind of curses doctors hear at
times from perfectly respectable young mothers in milk-fever—foul
blasphemies that have their roots in the subconscious dark of sex.
The soul of Second Lieutenant Peabody returned to his body. . . .
His soul remembered peculiarly little. They had arrived—in
Artillery formation—somewhere or other—on a pitch-dark night—
occupied some trenches. He had posted sentries—and the sentries
had gone to sleep. Everybody had gone to sleep—except himself and
Arkwright. Arkwright, by the way, must be dead. Otherwise, why
should he think of Arkwright as doubled-up over something or other,
with a pair of wire-cutters clutched in his hand. . . . Oh, yes—now he
came to think of it, most people were dead—because Slattery had
come along and said something about “half-past ten.” Then, they
had all got up—with their packs on—they ought to have been told to
take their packs off. . . .
“ ’Ave a drop of this, sir?” said a well-known voice at his elbow.
“Thanks, Haddock. I think I will,” answered the soul of Second
Lieutenant Peabody.
The mind came back to the soul. “What the hell happened?”
asked the boy.
“Whizz-bang. Thought you were gone that time, sir,” answered
the dirty little man with the dirty rifle. “ ’Tain’t no use going hover
again, sir. We’ve been hover three times.”
“Get me another rifle, you son of a bitch,” said Peabody curtly.
Something cracked like a whiplash in the air: he felt a terrible kick
on his left ear-drum; collapsed to ground.
For a second, the boy lay perfectly still; then, to his utter
amazement, he realized that he hadn’t been killed. On the contrary,
the shock of that second whizz-bang seemed to have cleared his
brain.
He hauled himself up very cautiously; peered over the edge of
the shallow trench.
Just above him, the ground rose—two hundred yards of ground—
littered with brown heaps—some of them moving—at the top of the
slope, more bodies—hundreds of them—hanging grotesquely in the
air. He dropped down again. . . .
“How many of us got back, Haddock?”
“Dunno, sir. Old Long. ’E’s just round the corner, sir.”
“Well, you stop here. If you see anything coming, shoot at it!”
The boy bent down; crawled along the trench; ran his head into
a man’s knees. “Heasy on there,” growled Long Longstaffe. “Heasy
on.” Then looking down, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t know it was you.” The boy
gave his instructions; crawled on. Private Longstaffe arranged his
elbows in the dirt; kicked his long legs behind him; cuddled the rifle-
stock to his cheek. “Carn’t miss the sods from ’ere,” he said to
himself. . . . And then, suddenly, he saw a cautious dot bob up on
the near skyline. . . .
 §8
“Blast it, oh, blast it. Get me a line, damn you.”
O’Grady, binoculars to eyes, could see the gray figures crawling
through the wire; could hear rifles crackling just below him.
The man on his knees tapped key frantically. “F.X. Don,” tapped
the man, “F.X. Don.”
More gray figures came through the wire. On the left of the wire,
up a little white road with trees on each side, came another line of
gray figures; flung themselves down. O’Grady could see flame from
their rifles, toy smoke puffs.
“F.X. Don,” tapped the man, “F.X. Don.” The gray figures by the
road were on their feet, running.
“F.O.O.” throbbed the plate at the man’s eardrum, “F.O.O.”
“Got ’em sir,” said the man to O’Grady, “will you speak?”
O’Grady grabbed the receiver, and said, speaking very slowly and
distinctly: “Esses—O—Esses. Do you understand?”
“Esses—O—Esses” throbbed the plate at his ear.

Private Longstaffe, wrenching frantically at jammed breechbolt,

heard a whirr as of homing pigeons over his head; was aware of
white smoke puffs bursting among the gray figures all along the
slope in front of him. . . . The breechbolt shot home at last, but
when he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, peered through the V of the
backsight, the gray figures had disappeared.
PART SEVENTEEN
THE SUICIDE CLUB
 §1
At midnight between the 26th and 27th of September, 1915, two
men faced each other across a chequered French table-cloth in the
bare salle à manger of an estaminet at Beuvry.
An orderly stood outside the door, an orderly with tiny highly-
polished grenades on his shoulder-straps, and below the grenades
two winking brass letters—the second of the letters being “G.”
Outside the estaminet, a car waited; and past the car filed steady
columns of tall men. These men, too, bore a winking “G” on each
shoulder-strap of their excessively clean tunics.
Said the first of the two at the table, a broad-shouldered quiet
man, rather full in the face, steady of eye, big of brown moustache—
a man who wore the crossed swords and star of a Major General:
“And so we have the job of cleansing their Augean stable for them.
As far as I can make out, the position is this.” He spread a big white
map on the table; indicated with one finger a semi-circle drawn in
thick blue chalk. “Whether the 9th can hang on to Fosse Eight or
not, is pretty doubtful. You already know the political situation”—he
emphasized the words a trifle scornfully—“with regard to Hill 70. . . .
The rest of the line, as far as the Hulluch Road, P. must look after.
Now, what about those guns? . . .”
His companion, a saturnine aquiline Brigadier General of Artillery,
well over six-foot, glass in his eye, drew a creased plan from his
pocket; spread it over the table-cloth. As he did so, his long hands
betrayed intense concentration; a concentration not belied by the
clipped phrases in which he spoke.
“I’ve seen both the Brigades, sir,” he began, “and as they
apparently know very little of the ground, I’ve arranged to take over
both Artilleries myself. Our own can’t be up for three days. The
Southdown batteries”—he pointed to the map—“are marked in red;
the Northdown in blue.”
“Too far back,” commented the other, scrutinizing the coloured
dots, the shaded arcs which showed their approximate ranges.
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