Computational Modeling And Visualization Of

Physical Systems With Python Wang download

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-
visualization-of-physical-systems-with-python-wang-61187116

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Computational Modeling And Visualization Of Physical Systems With

Python Wang

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-
visualization-of-physical-systems-with-python-wang-10816258

Computational Modeling And Problem Solving In The Networked World

Interfaces In Computer Science And Operations Research 2003th Edition
Ariz Informs Computing Society Conference 2003 Chandler

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-problem-
solving-in-the-networked-world-interfaces-in-computer-science-and-
operations-research-2003th-edition-ariz-informs-computing-society-
conference-2003-chandler-55934748

Computational Modeling And Simulation Of Intellect Current State And

Future Perspectives 1st Edition Boris Igelnik

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-simulation-
of-intellect-current-state-and-future-perspectives-1st-edition-boris-
igelnik-2507608

Computational Modeling And Data Analysis In Covid19 Research Chhabi

Rani Panigrahi

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-data-
analysis-in-covid19-research-chhabi-rani-panigrahi-31288368
Computational Modeling And Problem Solving In The Networked World
Interfaces In Computer Science And Operations Research 1st Edition J N
Hooker Auth

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-problem-
solving-in-the-networked-world-interfaces-in-computer-science-and-
operations-research-1st-edition-j-n-hooker-auth-4200594

Computational Modeling And Simulations Of Biomolecular Systems Benot

Roux

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-simulations-
of-biomolecular-systems-benot-roux-43793460

Computational Modeling And Simulation Of Solids And Structures Recent

Advances And Practical Applications Jingyun Kim

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-simulation-
of-solids-and-structures-recent-advances-and-practical-applications-
jingyun-kim-50655720

Computational Modeling And Simulation Examples In Bioengineering 1st

Edition Filipovic

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-simulation-
examples-in-bioengineering-1st-edition-filipovic-36533700

Computational Modeling And Simulation Of Advanced Wireless

Communication Systems Agbotiname Lucky Imoize

https://ebookbell.com/product/computational-modeling-and-simulation-
of-advanced-wireless-communication-systems-agbotiname-lucky-
imoize-58232416
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 CHAPTER XV
A Lover at Loos
The turrets twain that stood in air
Sheltered a foeman sniper there;
They found who fell to the sniper's aim,
A field of death on the field of fame—
And stiff in khaki the boys were laid,
To the rifle's toll at the barricade;
But the quick went clattering through the town,
Shot at the sniper and brought him down,
In the town of Loos in the morning.

The night was wet, the rain dripped from the sandbags and lay in
little pools on the floor of the trench. Snug in the shelter of its keep
a machine gun lurked privily, waiting for blood. The weapon had an
absolutely impersonal air; it had nothing to do with war and the
maiming of men. Two men were asleep in the bay, sitting on the
fire-step and snoring loudly. A third man leant over the parapet, his
eyes (if they were open) fixed on the enemy's trench in front.
Probably he was asleep; he stood fixed to his post motionless as a
statue. I wrapped my overcoat tightly round my body and lay down
in the slush by a dug-out door. The dug-out, a German construction
that burrowed deep in the chalky clay of Loos, was crowded with
queer, distorted figures. It looked as if the dead on the field had
been collected and shovelled into the place pell-mell. Bill Teake lay
with his feet inside the shelter, his head and shoulders out in the
rain. "I couldn't get in nohow," he grumbled as I lay down; "so I arst
them inside to throw me a 'andful of fleas an' I'd kip on the
doorstep. Blimey! 'tain't arf a barney; mud feathers, and no blurry
blanket. There's one thing certain, anyhow, that is, in the Army
you're certain to receive what you get."
 I was asleep immediately, my head on Bill's breast, my body in
the mud, my clothes sodden with rain. In the nights that followed
Loos we slept anywhere and anyhow. Men lay in the mud in the
trenches, in the fields, by the roadside, on sentry, and out on
listening patrols between the lines. I was asleep for about five
minutes when someone woke me up. I got to my feet, shivering with
cold.
"What's up?" I asked the soldier who had shaken me from my
slumber. He was standing opposite, leaning against the parados and
yawning.
"There's a bloke in the next dug-out as 'as got wounded," said
the man. "'E needs someone to dress 'is wound an' take 'im to the
dressin'-station. 'E 'as just crawled in from the fields."
"All right," I replied. "I'll go along and see him."
A stairway led down to the dug-out; an officer lay asleep at the
entrance, and a lone cat lay curled up on the second step. At the
bottom of the stair was a bundle of khaki, moaning feebly.
"Much hurt?" I asked.
"Feelin' a bit rotten," replied a smothered voice.
"Where's your wound?"
"On my left arm."
"What is your regiment?" I asked, fumbling at the man's sleeve.
"The East Yorks," was the reply to my question. "I was comin' up
the trench that's piled with dead Germans. I couldn't crawl over
them all the way, they smelt so bad. I got up and tried to walk; then
a sniper got me."
"Where's your regiment?" I asked.
"I don't know," was the answer. "I got lost and I went lookin' for
my mates. I came into a trench that was crowded with Germans."
"There's where you got hit," I said.
"No; they were Germans that wasn't dead," came the surprising
reply. "They were cooking food."
 "When was this?" I asked.
"Yesterday, just as it was growin' dusk," said the wounded man
in a weary voice. "Then the Germans saw me and they began to
shout and they caught hold of their rifles. I jumped over the trench
and made off with bullets whizzin' all round me. I tripped and fell
into a shell-hole and I lay there until it was very dark. Then I got
into the English trenches. I 'ad a sleep till mornin', then I set off to
look for my regiment."
While he was speaking I had lit the candle which I always carried
in my pocket and placed it on the floor of the dug-out. I examined
his wound. A bullet had gone through the left forearm, cutting the
artery and fracturing the bone; the blood was running down to his
finger tips in little rivulets. I looked at the face of the patient. He was
a mere boy, with thoughtful dark eyes, a snub nose, high
cheekbones; a line of down showed on a long upper lip, and a fringe
of innocent curling hairs straggled down his cheeks and curved
round his chin. He had never used a razor.
I bound up the wound, found a piece of bread in my pocket and
gave it to him. He ate ravenously.
"Hungry?" I said.
"As a 'awk," he answered. "I didn't 'ave nothin' to-day and not
much yesterday."
"How long have you been out here?" I asked.
"Only a week," he said. "The regiment marched from —— to
here. 'Twasn't 'arf a bloomin' sweat. We came up and got into action
at once."
"You'll be going home with this wound," I said.
"Will I?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," I replied. "A fracture of the forearm. It will keep you in
England for six months. How do you like that?"
"I'll be pleased," he said.
"Have you a mother?" I asked.
"No, but I've a girl."
 "Oh!"
"Not 'arf I aven't," said the youth. "I've only one, too. I don't 'old
with foolin' about with women. One's enough to be gone on, and
often one is one too many."
"Very sound reasoning," I remarked sleepily. I had sat down on
the floor and was dozing off.
The officer at the top of the stair stirred, shook himself and
glanced down.
"Put out that light," he growled. "It's showing out of the door.
The Germans will see it and send a shell across."
I put the candle out and stuck it in my pocket.
"Are you in pain now?" I asked the wounded boy.
"There's no pain now," was the answer. "It went away when you
put the dressing on."
"Then we'll get along to the dressing-station," I said, and we
clambered up the stairs into the open trench.
The sky, which was covered with dark grey clouds when I came
in, had cleared in parts, and from time to time the moon appeared
like a soft beautiful eye. The breezes held converse on the sandbags.
I could hear the subdued whispering of their prolonged consultation.
We walked along the peopled alley of war, where the quick stood on
the banquettes, their bayonets reflecting the brilliance of the moon.
When we should get as far as the trench where the dead Germans
were lying we would venture into the open and take the high road to
Maroc.
"So you've got a girl," I said to my companion.
"I have," he answered. "And she's not 'arf a one either. She's a
servant in a gentleman's 'ouse at Y——. I was workin' for a baker
and I used to drive the van. What d'ye work at?"
"I'm a navvy," I said. "I dig drains and things like that."
"Not much class that sort of work," said the baker's boy. "If you
come to Y—— after the war I'll try and get yer a job at the baker's....
Well, I saw this 'ere girl at the big 'ouse and I took a fancy to 'er. Are
yer much gone on girls? No, neither am I gone on any, only this one.
She's a sweet thing. I'd read you the last letter she sent me only it's
too dark. Maybe I could read it if the moon comes out. Can you read
a letter by the light of the moon? No.... Well, I took a fancy to the
girl and she fell in love with me. 'Er name was Polly Pundy. What's
your name?"
"Socrates," I said.
"My name is plain Brown," the boy said. "Jimmy Brown. My
mates used to call me Tubby because I was stout. Have you got a
nickname? No.... I don't like a nickname. Neither does Polly."
"How does your love affair progress?" I asked.
"It's not all 'oney," said the youth, trying to evade a projecting
sandbag that wanted to nudge his wounded arm. "It makes one
think. Somehow, I like that 'ere girl too well to be 'appy with 'er.
She's too good for me, she is. I used to be jealous sometimes; I
would strike a man as would look at 'er as quick as I'd think of it.
Sometimes when a young feller passed by and didn't look at my
Polly I'd be angry too. 'Wasn't she good enough for 'im?' I'd say to
myself; usin' 'is eyes to look at somethin' else when Polly is about
——"
"We'll get over the top now," I said, interrupting Brown. We had
come to the trench of the dead Germans. In front of us lay a dark
lump coiled up in the trench; a hand stretched out towards us, a
wan face looked up at the grey sky.... "We'll speak of Polly Pundy out
in the open."
We crossed the sandbagged parados. The level lay in front—grey,
solitary, formless. It was very quiet, and in the silence of the fields
where the whirlwind of war had spent its fury a few days ago there
was a sense of eternal loneliness and sadness. The grey calm night
toned the moods of my soul into one of voiceless sorrow, containing
no element of unrest. My mood was well in keeping with my
surroundings. In the distance I could see the broken chimney of
Maroc coal-mine standing forlorn in the air. Behind, the Twin Towers
of Loos quivered, grimly spectral.
 "We'll walk slowly, Brown," I said to the wounded boy. "We'll fall
over the dead if we're not careful.... Is Polly Pundy still in the
gentleman's house?" I asked.
"She's still there," said the boy. "When we get married we're
goin' to open a little shop."
"A baker's shop?" I asked.
"I s'pose so. It's what I know more about than anythink else.
D'you know anything about baking.... Nothing? It's not a bad thing
to turn your 'and to, take my tip for it.... Ugh! I almost fell over a
dead bloke that time.... I'm sleepy, aren't you?"
"By God! I am sleepy, Jimmy Brown," I muttered. "I'll try and find
a cellar in Maroc when I get there and have a good sleep."
The dressing-station in the ruined village was warm and
comfortable. An R.A.M.C. orderly was busily engaged in making tea
for the wounded who lay crowded in the cellar waiting until the
motor ambulances came up. Some had waited for twenty-four hours.
Two doctors were busy with the wounded, a German officer with an
arm gone lay on a stretcher on the floor; a cat was asleep near the
stove, I could hear it purring.
Mick Garney, one of our boys, was lying on the stretcher near the
stove. He was wounded in the upper part of the thigh, and was
recounting his adventures in the charge. He had a queer puckered
little face, high cheekbones, and a little black clay pipe, which he
always carried inside his cap on parade and in his haversack on the
march, that was of course when he was not carrying it between his
teeth with its bowl turned down. Going across in the charge, Micky
observed some half a dozen Germans rushing out from a spinney
near Hill 70, and placing a machine gun on the Vermelles-Hulluch
road along which several kilted Highlanders were coming at the
double. Garney took his pipe out of his mouth and looked on. They
were daring fellows, those Germans, coming out into the open in the
face of a charge and placing their gun in position. "I must stop their
game," said Mick.
 He lit his pipe, turned the bowl down, then lay on the damp
earth and, using a dead German for a rifle-rest, he took careful aim.
At the pull of the trigger, one of the Germans fell headlong, a second
dropped and a third. The three who remained lugged the gun back
into Loos churchyard and placed it behind a tombstone on which
was the figure of two angels kneeling in front of "The Sacred Heart."
Accompanied by two bombers, Mick Garney found the Germans
there.
"God forgive me!" said Mick, recounting the incident to the M.O.,
"I threw a bomb that blew the two angels clean off the tombstone."
"And the Germans?" asked the M.O.
"Begorra! they went with the angels."
... A doctor, a pot-bellied man with a kindly face and an innocent
moustache, took off Brown's bandage and looked at me.
"How are things going on up there?" he asked.
"As well as might be expected," I replied.
"You look worn out," said the doctor.
"I feel worn out," I answered.
"Is it a fact that the German Crown Prince has been captured?"
asked the doctor.
"Who?"
"The German Crown Prince," said the man. "A soldier who has
just gone away from here vows that he saw Little Willie under escort
in Loos."
"Oh, it's all bunkum," I replied. "I suppose the man has had too
much rum."
The doctor laughed.
"Well, sit down and I'll see if I can get you a cup of tea," he said
in a kindly voice, and at his word I sat down on the floor. I was
conscious of nothing further until the following noon. I awoke to find
myself in a cellar, wrapped in blankets and lying on a stretcher. I
went upstairs and out into the street and found that I had been
sleeping in the cellar of the house adjoining the dressing-station.
 I called to mind Jimmy Brown, his story of Polly Pundy; his tale of
passion told on the field of death, his wound and his luck. A week in
France only, and now going back again to England, to Polly Pundy,
servant in a gentleman's house. He was on his way home now
probably, a wound in his arm and dreams of love in his head. You
lucky devil, Jimmy Brown!... Anyhow, good fortune to you.... But
meanwhile it was raining and I had to get back to the trenches.
 CHAPTER XVI
The Ration Party
"In the Army you are certain to receive what you get."—Trench Proverb.

A rifleman lay snoring in the soft slush on the floor of the trench,
his arms doubled under him, his legs curved up so that the knees
reached the man's jaw. As I touched him he shuffled a little, turned
on his side, seeking a more comfortable position in the mud, and fell
asleep again. A light glowed in the dug-out and someone in there
was singing in a low voice a melancholy ragtime song. No doubt a
fire was now lit in the corner near the wall, my sleeping place, and
Bill Teake was there preparing a mess-tin of tea.
The hour was twilight, the hour of early stars and early star-
shells, of dreams and fancies and longings for home. It is then that
all objects take on strange shapes, when every jutting traverse
becomes alive with queer forms, the stiff sandbag becomes a
gnome, the old dug-out, leaning wearily on its props, an ancient
crone, spirits lurk in every nook and corner of shadows; the sleep-
heavy eyes of weary men see strange visions in the dark alleys of
war. I entered the dug-out. A little candle in a winding sheet flared
dimly in a niche which I had cut in the wall a few days previous.
Pryor was sitting on the floor, his hands clasped round his knees,
and he was looking into infinite distances. Bill Teake was there,
smoking a cigarette and humming his ragtime tune. Two other
soldiers were there, lying on the floor and probably asleep. One was
covered with a blanket, but his face was bare, a sallow face with a
blue, pinched nose, a weak, hairy jaw, and an open mouth that
gaped at the rafters. The other man lay at his feet, breathing
heavily. No fire was lit as yet.
"No rations have arrived?" I asked.
 "No blurry rations," said Bill. "Never no rations now, nothink now
at all. I 'ad a loaf yesterday and I left it in my pack in the trench,
and when I come to look for't, it was gone."
"Who took it?" I asked.
"Ask me another!" said Bill with crushing irony. "'Oo ate the first
bloater? Wot was the size of my great grandmuvver's boots when
she was twenty-one? But 'oo pinched my loaf? and men in this crush
that would pinch a dead mouse from a blind kitten! Yer do ask some
questions, Pat!"
"Bill and I were having a discussion a moment ago," said Pryor,
interrupting. "Bill maintains that the Army is not an honourable
institution, and that no man should join it. If he knew as much as he
knows now he would never have come into it. I was saying that——"
"Oh, you were talkin' through yer 'at, that's wot you were," said
Bill. "The harmy a place of honour indeed! 'Oo wants to join it now?
Nobody as far as I can see. The married men say to the single men,
'You go and fight, you slackers! We'll stay at 'ome; we 'ave our old
women to keep!' Sayin' that, the swine!" said Bill angrily. "Them
thinkin' that the single men 'ave nothin' to do but to go out and fight
for other men's wives. Blimey! that ain't 'arf cheek!"
"That doesn't alter the fact that our cause is just," said Pryor.
"The Lord God of Hosts is with us yet, and the Church says that all
men should fight—except clergymen."
"And why shouldn't them parsons fight?" asked Bill. "They say,
'Go and God bless you' to us, and then they won't fight themselves.
It's against the laws of God, they say. If we 'ad all the clergymen, all
the M.P.'s, the Kaiser and Crown Prince, Krupp and von Kluck, and all
these 'ere blokes wot tell us to fight, in these 'ere trenches for a
week, the war would come to an end very sudden."
Pryor rose and tried to light a fire. Wood was very scarce, the
paper was wet and refused to burn.
"No fire to-night," said Bill in a despondent voice. "Two pieces of
wood on a brazier is no go; they look like two crossbones on a
'earse."
 "Are rations coming up to-night?" I asked. The ration wagons had
been blown to pieces on the road the night before and we were very
hungry now.
"I suppose our grub will get lost this night again," said Bill. "It's
always the way. I wish I was shot like that bloke there."
"Where?" I asked.
"There," answered Bill, pointing at the man with the blue and
pinched face who lay in the corner. "'E's gone West."
"No," I said. "He's asleep!"
"'E'll not get up at revelly, 'im," said Bill. "'E's out of the doin's for
good. 'E got wounded at the door and we took 'im in. 'E died." ...
I approached the prostrate figure, examined him, and found that
Bill spoke the truth.
"A party has gone down to Maroc for rations," said Pryor, lighting
a cigarette and puffing the smoke up towards the roof. "They'll be
back by eleven, I hope. That's if they're not blown to pieces. A lot of
men got hit going down last night, and then there was no grub
when they got to the dumping ground."
"This man," I said, pointing to the snoring figure on the ground.
"He is all right?"
"Dead beat only," said Pryor; "but otherwise safe. I am going to
have a kip now if I can."
So saying he bunched up against the wall, leant his elbow on the
brazier that refused to burn, and in a few seconds he was fast
asleep. Bill and I lay down together, keeping as far away as we could
from the dead man, and did our best to snatch a few minutes'
repose.
We nestled close to the muddy floor across which the shadows of
the beams and sandbags crept in ghostly play. Now the shadows
bunched into heaps, again they broke free, lacing and interlacing as
the lonely candle flared from its niche in the wall.
The air light and rustling was full of the scent of wood smoke
from a fire ablaze round the traverse, of the smell of mice, and the
soft sounds and noises of little creeping things.
Shells travelling high in air passed over our dug-out; the
Germans were shelling the Loos Road and the wagons that were
coming along there. Probably that one just gone over had hit the
ration wagon. The light of the candle failed and died: the night full
of depth and whispering warmth swept into the dug-out, cloaked the
sleeping and the dead, and settled, black and ghostly, in the corners.
I feel asleep.
Bill tugging at my tunic awoke me from a horrible nightmare. In
my sleep I had gone with the dead man from the hut out into the
open. He walked with me, the dead man, who knew that he was
dead. I tried to prove to him that it was not quite the right and
proper thing to do, to walk when life had left the body. But he paid
not a sign of heed to my declamation. In the open space between
our line and that of the Germans the dead man halted and told me
to dig a grave for him there. A shovel came into my hand by some
strange means and I set to work with haste; if the Germans saw me
there they would start to shell me. The sooner I got the job done
the better.
"Deep?" I asked the man when I had laboured for a space. There
was no answer. I looked up at the place where he stood to find the
man gone. On the ground was a short white stump of bone. This I
was burying when Bill shook me.
"Rations 'ave come, Pat," he said.
"What's the time now?" I asked, getting to my feet and looking
round. A fresh candle had been lit; the dead man still lay in the
corner, but Pryor was asleep in the blanket.
"About midnight," said my mate, "or maybe a bit past. Yer didn't
'arf 'ave a kip."
"I was dreaming," I said. "Thought I was burying a man between
the German lines."
"You'll soon be burying a man or two," said Bill.
"Who are to be buried?" I asked.
 "The ration party."
"What!"
"The men copped it comin' up 'ere," said Bill. "Three of 'em were
wiped out complete. The others escaped. I went out with Murney
and O'Meara and collared the grub. I'm just goin' to light a fire now."
"I'll help you," I said, and began to cut a fresh supply of wood
which had come from nowhere in particular with my clasp-knife.
A fire was soon burning merrily, a mess-tin of water was singing,
and Bill had a few slices of bacon on the mess-tin lid ready to go on
the brazier when the tea came off.
"This is wot I call comfy," he said. "Gawd, I'm not arf 'ungry. I
could eat an 'oss."
I took off the tea, Bill put the lid over the flames and in a
moment the bacon was sizzling.
"Where's the bread, Bill?" I asked.
"In that there sandbag," said my mate, pointing to a bag beside
the door.
I opened the bag and brought out the loaf. It felt very moist. I
looked at it and saw that it was coloured dark red.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Wot?" queried Bill, kicking Pryor to waken him.
"This bread has a queer colour," I said. "See it, Pryor."
Pryor gazed at it with sleep-heavy eyes.
"It's red," he muttered.
"Its colour is red," I said.
"Red," said Bill. "Well, we're damned 'ungry any'ow. I'd eat it if it
was covered with rat poison."
"How did it happen?" I asked.
"Well, it's like this," said Bill. "The bloke as was carryin' it got 'it
in the chest. The rations fell all round 'im and 'e fell on top of 'em.
That's why the loaf is red."
We were very hungry, and hungry men are not fastidious.
We made a good meal.
When we had eaten we went out and buried the dead.
 CHAPTER XVII
Michaelmas Eve
It's "Carry on!" and "Carry on!" and "Carry on!" all day,
And when we cannot carry on, they'll carry us away
To slumber sound beneath the ground, pore beggars dead and gone,
'Till Gabriel shouts on Judgment Day, "Get out and carry on!"

On Michaelmas Eve things were quiet; the big guns were silent,
and the only sign of war was in the star-shells playing near Hill 70;
the rifles pinging up by Bois Hugo, and occasional clouds of shrapnel
incense which the guns offered to the god they could not break, the
Tower Bridge of Loos. We had not been relieved yet, but we hoped
to get back to Les Brebis for a rest shortly. The hour was midnight,
and I felt very sleepy. The wounded in our sector had been taken in,
the peace of the desert was over the level land and its burden of
unburied dead. I put on my overcoat, one that I had just found in a
pack on the roadway, and went into a barn which stood near our
trench. The door of the building hung on one hinge. I pulled it off,
placed it on the floor, and lay on it. With due caution I lit a cigarette,
and the smoke reeked whitely upwards to the skeleton roof which
the shell fire had stripped of nearly all its tiles.
My body was full of delightful pains of weariness, my mind was
full of contentment. The moon struggled through a rift in the clouds
and a shower of pale light streamed through the chequered
framework overhead. The tiles which had weathered a leaden storm
showed dark against the sky, queer shadows played on the floor, and
in the subdued moonlight, strange, unexpected contrasts were
evoked. In the corners, where the shadows took on definite forms,
there was room for the imagination to revel in. The night of ruination
with its soft moonlight and delicate shading had a wonderful
fascination of its own. The enemy machine gun, fumbling for an
opening, chirruped a lullaby as its bullets pattered against the wall. I
was under the spell of an enchanting poem. "How good, how very
good it is to be alive," I said.
My last remembrance before dozing off was of the clatter of picks
and shovels on the road outside. The sanitary squad was at work
burying the dead. I fell asleep.
I awoke to find somebody tugging at my elbow and to hear a
voice which I recognised as W.'s, saying, "It's only old Pat."
"What's wrong?" I mumbled, raising myself on my elbow and
looking round. The sanitary diggers were looking at me, behind
them the Twin Towers stood out dark against the moonlight. Girders,
ties and beams seemed to have been outlined with a pen dipped in
molten silver. I was out in the open.
"This isn't half a go," said one of the men, a mate of mine, who
belonged to the sanitary squad. "We thought you were a dead 'un.
We dug a deep grave, put two in and there was room for another.
Then L. said that there was a bloke lying on a door inside that
house, and in we goes and carries you out—door and all. You're just
on the brink of your grave now."
I peeped over the side and down a dark hole with a bundle of
khaki and a white face at the bottom.
"I refuse to be buried," I muttered, and took up my bed and
walked.
As I lay down again in the building which I had left to be buried,
I could hear my friends laughing. It was a delightful joke. In a
moment I was sound asleep.
I awoke with a start to a hell-riot of creaking timbers and tiles
falling all around me. I got to my feet and crouched against the wall
shuddering, almost paralyzed with fear. A tense second dragged by.
The tiles ceased to fall and I looked up at the place where the roof
had been. But the roof was gone; a shell had struck the centre
beam, raised the whole construction as a lid is raised from a teapot,
and flung it over into the street.... I rushed out into the trench in
undignified haste, glad of my miraculous escape from death, and
stumbled across Bill Teake as I fell into the trench.
"Wot's wrong with yer, mate?" he asked.
I drew in a deep breath and was silent for a moment. I was
trying to regain my composure.
"Bill," I replied, "this is the feast of St. Michael and All Angels.
I've led such an exemplary life that St. Michael and All Angels in
Paradise want me to visit them. They caused the sanitary squad to
dig my grave to-night, and when I refused to be buried they sent a
shell along to strafe me. I escaped. I refuse to be virtuous from now
until the end of my days."
"'Ave a drop of rum, Pat," said Bill, uncorking a bottle.
"Thank you, Bill," I said, and drank. I wiped my lips.
"Are we going to be relieved?" I asked.
"In no time," said Bill. "The 22nd London are coming along the
trench now. We're going back to Les Brebis."
"Good," I said.
"'Ave another drop of rum," said Bill.
He left me then and I began to make up my pack. It was useless
for me to wait any longer. I would go across the fields to Les Brebis.
The night grew very dark, and heavy clouds gathered overhead.
The nocturnal rustling of the field surrounded me, the dead men lay
everywhere and anyhow, some head-downwards in shell-holes,
others sitting upright as they were caught by a fatal bullet when
dressing their wounds. Many were spread out at full length, their
legs close together, their arms extended, crucifixes fashioned from
decaying flesh wrapped in khaki. Nature, vast and terrible, stretched
out on all sides; a red star-shell in the misty heavens looked like a
lurid wound dripping with blood.
I walked slowly, my eyes fixed steadily on the field ahead, for I
did not desire to trip over the dead, who lay everywhere. As I
walked a shell whistled over my head and burst against the Twin
Towers, and my gaze rested on the explosion. At that moment I
tripped on something soft and went headlong across it. A dozen rats
slunk away into the darkness as I fell. I got to my feet again and
looked at the dead man. The corpse was a mere condensation of
shadows with a blurred though definite outline. It was a remainder
and a reminder; a remnant of clashing steel, of rushing figures, of
loud-voiced imprecations—of war, a reminder of mad passion, of
organised hatred, of victory and defeat.
Engirt with the solitude and loneliness of the night it wasted
away, though no waste could alter it now; it was a man who was
not; henceforth it would be that and that alone.
For the thing there was not the quietude of death and the privacy
of the tomb, it was outcast from its kind. Buffeted by the breeze,
battered by the rains it rotted in the open. Worms feasted on its
entrails, slugs trailed silverly over its face, and lean rats gnawed at
its flesh. The air was full of the thing, the night stank with its decay.
Life revolted at that from which life was gone, the quick cast it
away for it was not of them. The corpse was one with the mystery of
the night, the darkness and the void.
In Loos the ruined houses looked gloomy by day, by night they
were ghastly. A house is a ruin when the family that dwelt within its
walls is gone; but by midnight in the waste, how horrible looks the
house of flesh from which the soul is gone. We are vaguely aware of
what has happened when we look upon the tenantless home, but
man is stricken dumb when he sees the tenantless body of one of
his kind. I could only stare at the corpse until I felt that my eyes
were as glassy as those on which I gazed. The stiffness of the dead
was communicated to my being, the silence was infectious; I hardly
dared to breathe.
"This is the end of all the mad scurry and rush," I said. "What
purpose does it serve? And why do I stand here looking at the
thing?" There were thousands of dead around Loos; fifty thousand
perhaps, scattered over a few square miles of country, unburied.
Some men, even, might still be dying.
 A black speck moved along the earth a few yards away from me,
slunk up to the corpse and disappeared into it, as it were. Then
another speck followed, and another. The rats were returning to
their meal.
The bullets whistled past my ears. The Germans had a machine
gun and several fixed rifles trained on the Vallé Cross-roads outside
Loos, and all night long these messengers of death sped out to meet
the soldiers coming up the road and chase the soldiers going down.
The sight of the dead man and the rats had shaken me; I felt
nervous and could not restrain myself from looking back over my
shoulder at intervals. I had a feeling that something was following
me, a Presence, vague and terrible, a spectre of the midnight and
the field of death.
I am superstitious after a fashion, and I fear the solitude of the
night and the silent obscurity of the darkness.
Once, at Vermelles, I passed through a deserted trench in the
dusk. There the parapet and parados were fringed with graves, and
decrepit dug-outs leant wearily on their props like hags on crutches.
A number of the dug-outs had fallen in, probably on top of the
sleeping occupants, and no one had time to dig the victims out.
Such things often happen in the trenches, and in wet weather when
the sodden dug-outs cave in, many men are buried alive.
The trench wound wayward as a river through the fields, its
traverse steeped in shadow, its bays full of mystery. As I walked
through the maze my mind was full of presentiments of evil. I was
full of expectation, everything seemed to be leading up to
happenings weird and uncanny, things which would not be of this
world. The trench was peopled with spectres; soldiers, fully armed,
stood on the fire-steps, their faces towards the enemy. I could see
them as I entered a bay, but on coming closer the phantoms died
away. The boys in khaki were tilted sandbags heaped on the
banquette, the bayonets splinters of wood sharply defined against
the sky. As if to heighten the illusion, torn ground-sheets, hanging
from the parados, made sounds like travelling shells, as the breezes
caught them and brushed them against the wall.
I went into a bay to see something dark grey and shapeless
bulked in a heap on the fire-step. Another heap of sandbags I
thought. But no! In the darkness of the weird locality realities were
exaggerated and the heap which I thought was a large one was in
reality very small; a mere soldier, dead in the trench, looked
enormous in my eyes. The man's bayonet was pressed between his
elbow and side, his head bending forward almost touched the knees,
and both the man's hands were clasped across it as if for protection.
A splinter of shell which he stooped to avoid must have caught him.
He now was the sole occupant of the deserted trench, this poor,
frozen effigy of fear. The trench was a grave unfilled.... I scrambled
over the top and took my way across the open towards my company.
Once, at midnight, I came through the deserted village of Bully-
Grenay, where every house was built exactly like its neighbour. War
has played havoc with the pattern, however, most of the houses are
shell-stricken, and some are levelled to the ground. The church
stands on a little knoll near the coal-mine, and a shell has dug a big
hole in the floor of the aisle. A statue of the Blessed Virgin sticks
head downwards in the hole; how it got into this ludicrous position is
a mystery.
The Germans were shelling the village as I came through.
Shrapnel swept the streets and high explosives played havoc with
the mine; I had no love for a place in such a plight. In front of me a
limber was smashed to pieces, the driver was dead, the offside
wheeler dead, the nearside wheeler dying and kicking its mate in the
belly with vicious hooves. On either side of me were deserted
houses with the doors open and shadows brooding in the interior.
The cellars would afford secure shelter until the row was over, but I
feared the darkness and the gloom more than I feared the shells in
the open street. When the splinters swept perilously near to my
head I made instinctively for an open door, but the shadows seemed
to thrust me back with a powerful hand. To save my life I would not
go into a house and seek refuge in the cellars.
 I fear the solitude of the night, but I can never ascertain what it
is I fear in it. I am not particularly interested in the supernatural,
and spiritualism and table-rapping is not at all to my taste. In a
crowded room a spirit in my way of thinking loses its dignity and
power to impress, and at times I am compelled to laugh at those
who believe in manifestations of disembodied spirits.
Once, at Givenchy, a soldier in all seriousness spoke of a strange
sight which he had seen. Givenchy Church has only one wall
standing, and a large black crucifix with its nailed Christ is fixed to
this wall. From the trenches on a moonlight night it is possible to see
the symbol of sorrow with its white figure which seems to keep
eternal watch over the line of battle. The soldier of whom I speak
was on guard; the night was very clear, and the enemy were shelling
Givenchy Church. A splinter of shell knocked part of the arm of the
cross away. The soldier on watch vowed that he saw a luminous halo
settle round the figure on the Cross. It detached itself from its nails,
came down to the ground, and put the fallen wood back to its place.
Then the Crucified resumed His exposed position again on the Cross.
It was natural that the listeners should say that the sentry was
drunk.
It is strange how the altar of Givenchy Church and its symbol of
Supreme Agony has escaped destruction. Many crosses in wayside
shrines have been untouched though the locality in which they stand
is swept with eternal artillery fire.
But many have fallen; when they become one with the rubble of
a roadway their loss is unnoticed. It is when they escape destruction
that they become conspicuous. They are like the faithful in a storm
at sea who prayed to the Maria del Stella and weathered the gale.
Their good fortune became common gossip. But gossip, historical
and otherwise, is mute upon those who perished.
 CHAPTER XVIII
Back at Loos
The dead men lay on the shell-scarred plain,
Where death and the autumn held their reign—
Like banded ghosts in the heavens grey
The smoke of the conflict died away.
The boys whom I knew and loved were dead,
Where war's grim annals were writ in red,
In the town of Loos in the morning.

The ruined village lay wrapped in the silence of death. It was a

corpse over which the stars came out like funeral tapers. The star-
shells held the heaven behind Loos, forming into airy constellations
which vanished at a breath. The road, straight as an arrow, pitted
with shell-holes and bearing an incongruous burden of dead mules,
dead men, broken limbers, and vehicles of war, ran in front of us
straight up to and across the firing line into the France that was not
France. Out there behind the German lines were the French villagers
and peasantry, fearing any advance on our part, much more even
than the Germans feared it, even as much as the French behind our
lines feared a German advance.
The indefatigable shrapnel kills impartially; how many civilians in
Loos and Lens have fallen victims to the furious 75's? In France the
Allies fight at a disadvantage; a few days previously a German
ammunition depot had been blown up in Lille, and upwards of a
hundred French civilians were killed. How much more effective it
would have been if the civilians had been Germans!
Our battalion was returning to the trenches after a fortnight's
rest in H——, a village in the rear. We had handed over the trench
taken from the Germans to the 22nd London Regiment before
leaving for H——. In H—— we got a new equipment, fresh clothing,
good boots and clean shirts; now we were ready for further work in
active warfare.
We were passing through Loos on the way to the trenches. What
a change since we had been there last! The adaptive French had
taken the village in hand; they had now been there for three days.
Three days, and a miracle had been accomplished. Every shell-crater
in the street was filled up with dead horses, biscuit tins, sandbags
and bricks, and the place was made easy for vehicle traffic.
Barricades, behind which machine guns lurked privily, were built at
the main crossings. An old bakery was patched up and there bread
was baked for the soldiers. In a cellar near the square a neat wine-
shop displayed tempting bottles which the thirsty might purchase for
a few sous.
The ease with which the French can accommodate themselves to
any change has been a constant source of wonder to me. In Les
Brebis I saw roofs blown off the village houses at dawn, at noon I
saw the natives putting them on again; at Cuinchy I saw an ancient
woman selling café-au-lait at four sous a cup in the jumble of bricks
which was once her home. When the cow which supplied the milk
was shot in the stomach the woman still persisted in selling coffee,
café noir, at three sous a cup. When a civilian is killed at Mazingarbe
the children of the place sell the percussion cap of the death-dealing
shell for half a franc. Once when I was there an old crone was killed
when washing her feet at a street pump. A dozen or more
percussion caps were sold that day; every garçon in the
neighbourhood claimed that the aluminium nose-cap in his
possession was the one that did the foul deed. When I was new to
France I bought several of these ghastly relics, but in a few weeks I
was out trying to sell. There was then, however, a slump in nose-
caps, and I lost heavily.
The apt process of accommodation which these few incidents
may help to illustrate is peculiar to the French; they know how to
make the best of a bad job and a ruined village. They paved the
streets with dead horses; drew bread from the bricks and stored
wine in the litter that was Loos. That is France, the Phœnix that rises
resplendent from her ashes; France that like her Joan of Arc will live
for ever because she has suffered; France, a star, like Rabelais,
which can cast aside a million petty vices when occasion requires it
and glow with eternal splendour, the wonder of the world.
The Munster Fusiliers held a trench on the left of Loos and they
had suffered severely. They had been in there for eight days, and
the big German guns were active all the time. In one place the
trench was filled in for a distance of three hundred yards. Think of
what that means. Two hundred men manned the deep, cold alley
dug in the clay. The shells fell all round the spot, the parados
swooped forward, the parapet dropped back, they were jaws which
devoured men. The soldiers went in there, into a grave that closed
like a trap. None could escape. When we reopened the trench, we
reopened a grave and took out the dead.
The night we came to relieve those who remained alive was clear
and the stars stood out cold and brilliant in the deep overhead; but a
grey haze enveloped the horizon, and probably we would have rain
before the dawn. The trenches here were dug recently, makeshift
alleys they were, insecure and muddy, lacking dug-outs, fire-places,
and every accommodation that might make a soldier's life bearable.
They were fringed with dead; dead soldiers in khaki lay on the
reverse slope of the parapet, their feet in the grass, their heads on
the sandbags; they lay behind the parados, on the levels, in the
woods, everywhere. Upwards of eleven thousand English dead
littered the streets of Loos and the country round after the victory,
and many of these were unburied yet.
A low-lying country, wet fields, stagnant drains, shell-rent roads,
ruined houses, dead men, mangled horses. To us soldiers this was
the only apparent result of the battle of Loos, a battle in which we
fought at the start, a battle which was not yet ended. We knew
nothing of the bigger issues of the fight. We had helped to capture
several miles of trenches and a few miles of country. We brought our
guns forward, built new emplacements, to find that the enemy knew
his abandoned territory so well that he easily located the positions of
our batteries. Before the big fight our guns round Les Brebis and
Maroc were practically immune from observation; now they were
shelled almost as soon as they were placed. We thrust our salient
forward like a duck's bill, and our trenches were subject to enfilade
fire and in some sectors our men were even shelled from the rear.
Our plan of attack was excellent, our preparations vigorous and
effective, as far as they went. Our artillery blew the barbed wire
entanglements of the first German trench to pieces, at the second
trench the wire was practically untouched.
Our regiment entered this latter trench where it runs along in
front of Loos. We followed on the heels of the retreating Germans.
Our attack might have been more effective if the real offensive
began here, if fresh troops were flung at the disorganised Germans
when the second trench was taken. Lens might easily have fallen
into our hands.
The fresh divisions coming up on Sunday and Monday had to
cope with the enemy freshly but strongly entrenched on Hill 70. The
Guards Division crossed from Maroc in open order on the afternoon
of Sunday, the 26th, and was greeted by a furious artillery fire which
must have worked great havoc amongst the men. I saw the advance
from a distance. I think it was the most imposing spectacle of the
fight. What struck me as very strange at the time was the Division
crossing the open when they might have got into action by coming
along through the trenches. On the level the men were under
observation all the time. The advance, like that of the London Irish,
was made at a steady pace.
What grand courage it is that enables men to face the inevitable
with untroubled front. Despite the assurance given by the Higher
Command about the easy task in front of us, the boys of our
regiment, remembering Givenchy and Richebourg, gave little
credence to the assurance; they anticipated a very strong resistance,
in fact none of them hoped to get beyond the first German trench.
It is easy to understand why men are eager "to get there," as the
favourite phrase says, once they cross the parapet of the assembly
trench. "There," the enemy's line, is comparatively safe, and a man
can dodge a blow or return one. The open offers no shelter;
between the lines luck alone preserves a man; a soldier is merely a
naked babe pitted against an armed gladiator. Naturally he wants "to
get there" with the greatest possible speed; in the open he is beset
with a thousand dangers, in the foeman's trench he is confronted
with but one or two.
I suppose "the desire to get there," which is so often on the lips
of the military correspondent, is as often misconstrued. The desire
to get finished with the work is a truer phrase. None wish to go to a
dentist, but who would not be rid of an aching tooth?
The London Irish advance was more remarkable than many have
realized. The instinct of self-preservation is the strongest in created
beings, and here we see hundreds of men whose premier
consideration was their own personal safety moving forward to
attack with the nonchalance of a church parade. Perhaps the men
who kicked the football across were the most nervous in the affair.
Football is an exciting pastime, it helped to take the mind away from
the crisis ahead, and the dread anticipation of death was forgotten
for the time being. But I do not think for a second that the ball was
brought for that purpose.
Although we captured miles of trenches, the attack in several
parts stopped on open ground where we had to dig ourselves in.
This necessitated much labour and afforded little comfort. Dug-outs
there were none, and the men who occupied the trenches after the
fight had no shelter from shell-splinters and shrapnel. From trenches
such as these we relieved all who were left of the Munster Fusiliers.
The Germans had placed some entanglements in front of their
position, and it was considered necessary to examine their labours
and see what they had done. If we found that their wire
entanglement was strong and well fastened our conclusions would
be that the Germans were not ready to strike, that their time at the
moment was devoted to safeguarding themselves from attack. If, on
the other hand, their wires were light, fragile and easily removed,
we might guess that an early offensive on our lines would take
place. Lieutenant Y. and two men went across to have a look at the
enemy's wires; we busied ourselves digging a deeper trench; as a
stretcher-bearer I had no particular work for the moment, so I
buried a few of the dead who lay on the field.
On our right was a road which crossed our trench and that of the
Germans, a straight road lined with shell-scarred poplars running
true as an arrow into the profundities of the unknown. The French
occupied the trench on our right, and a gallant Porthos (I met him
later) built a barricade of sandbags on the road, and sitting there all
night with a fixed rifle, he fired bullet after bullet down the highway.
His game was to hit cobbles near the German trenches, from there
the bullet went splattering and ricochetting, hopping and skipping
along the road for a further five hundred yards, making a sound like
a pebble clattering down the tiles of a roof. Many a Boche coming
along that road must have heartily cursed the energetic Porthos.
Suddenly the report of firearms came from the open in front,
then followed two yells, loud and agonising, and afterwards silence.
What had happened? Curiosity prompted me to rush into the trench,
leaving a dead soldier half buried, and make inquiries. All the
workers had ceased their labour, they stood on the fire-steps staring
into the void in front of them, their ears tensely strained. Something
must have happened to the patrol, probably the officer and two men
had been surprised by the enemy and killed....
As we watched, three figures suddenly emerged from the
greyness in front, rushed up to the parapet, and flung themselves
hastily into the trench. The listening patrol had returned.
Breathlessly they told a story.
They had examined the enemy's wire and were on the way back
when one of the men stumbled into a shell-hole on the top of three
Germans who were probably asleep. The Boches scrambled to their
feet and faced the intruders. The officer fired at one and killed him
instantly, one of our boys ran another through the heart with the
bayonet, the third German got a crack on the head with a rifle-butt
and collapsed, yelling. Then the listening patrol rushed hurriedly in,
told their story and consumed extra tots of rum when the exciting
narrative was finished.
The morning country was covered with white fog; Bois Hugo, the
wood on our left, stood out an island in a sea of milk. Twenty yards
away from the trench was the thick whiteness, the unknown. Our
men roamed about the open picking up souvenirs and burying dead.
Probably in the mist the Germans were at work, too.... All was very
quiet, not a sound broke the stillness, the riot of war was choked,
suffocated, in the cold, soft fog.
All at once an eager breeze broke free and swept across the
parapet, driving the fog away. In the space of five seconds the open
was bare, the cloak which covered it was swept off. Then we saw
many things.
Our boys in khaki came rushing back to their trench, flinging
down all souvenirs in their haste to reach safety; the French on our
right scampered to their burrows, casting uneasy eyes behind them
as they ran. A machine gun might open and play havoc. Porthos had
a final shot down the road, then he disappeared and became one
with the field.
But the enemy raced in as we did; their indecorous haste
equalled ours. They had been out, too. One side retreated from the
other, and none showed any great gallantry in the affair. Only when
the field was clear did the rifles speak. Then there was a lively ten
minutes and a few thousand useless rounds were wasted by the
combatants before they sat down to breakfast.
"A strategic retreat," said Pryor. "I never ran so quickly in all my
life. I suppose it is like this every night, men working between the
lines, engineers building entanglements, covering parties sleeping
out their watch, listening patrols and souvenir hunters doing their
little bit in their own particular way. It's a funny way of conducting a
war."
"It's strange," I said.
"We have no particular hatred for the men across the way," said
Pryor. "My God, the trenches tone a man's temper. When I was at
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com