on this leave i most religiously visited relations and graciously received guests. for one thing, i felt it my duty to dispel all this ignorant pessimism that i found rolling about in large chunks, like the thunder in alice in wonderland. i exacted apologies, humble apologies from them. “how can we help it?” they pleaded. “we have no means of knowing anything except through the papers.”
“no, i suppose you can’t help it,” i would reply, and forgive them from my throne of optimism. eight days passed easily enough.
after dinner sometimes comes indigestion: people enjoy the one and not the other. so after leave comes the return from leave, the one in tommy-french bon, the other no bon. i hope i do not offend by calling the state of the latter a mental indigestion! it was with a kind of fierce joy that we threw out our bully and biscuits to the crowds of french children who lined the railway banks crying out, “bullee-beef,” “biskeet.” the custom of supplying these rations on the leave train has 88 long since been discontinued now, but in those days the little beggars used to know the time of the train to a nicety, and must have made a good trade of it.
as soon as i got back to montagne i heard a “move” was in the air, and i was delighted. i was fearfully keen to get back into the firing-line again. i was full of life, and in the mood for adventure. i started a diary. here are some extracts.
“29th january, 1916. lewis (my servant) brought in a bucket of water this morning which contained 10% of mud. as the mud dribbled on to the green canvas of my bath during the end of the pouring, he saw it for the first time. apparently the well is running dry.... he managed to get some clean water at length and i had a great bath. madame asked me as i went in to breakfast why i whistled getting up that morning. i tried to explain that i was in good spirits. it was an exhilarating morning; outside was a great cawing of rooks, and the slant sunlight lit up everything with a rich colour; the mouldy green on the twigs of the apple trees was a joy to see. later in the day i noticed how all this delicious morning light had gone.
“7 p.m. orders have just come in for the move to-morrow. loading party at 6.0 a.m. under edwards, who is inwardly fed up but outwardly quite pleased. valises to be ready by 6.45 a.m. dixon grouses as usual at orders coming in late. 89 these moves always try the tempers of all concerned. o’brien and edwards are now on the rustle, collecting kit. we have accumulated rather a lot of papers, books, tins of ration, tobacco, etc.”
madame was genuinely sorry to see us go. we gave her a large but beautiful ornament for her mantelpiece, suitably inscribed. the dear soul was overwhelmed, and drew cider from a cellar hitherto unknown to us, which she pressed on our servants as well as on us. we made the fellows drink it, though they were not very keen on it!
“30 jan., 1916. montagne—vaux-en-amienois. i found myself suddenly detailed as o.c. rear party, in lieu of edwards, who has to remain in montagne and hand over to the incoming battalion. at 9.30 three a.s.c. lorries arrived, and we loaded up. i had about forty men for the job. it was good to see these boys heaving up rolls of many-coloured blankets, which filled nearly two lorries; the third was packed with a mixture of boilers, dixies, brooms, spades, lamps, etc. the leather and skin waistcoats had to be left behind for a second journey: i left the shoemaker-sergeant and four men with these to await the return of one of the lorries. as we worked a fog rolled up, which was to stay all day. edwards meanwhile saw to it that all the odd coal and wood left at the transport was taken to our good madame; this much annoyed the groups of women who peered like vultures from the doorways, ready 90 to squabble over the pickings as soon as the last of us had departed.
farewell to montagne. all the fellows were dull. even sawyer the smiling, who had been prominent with his cheery face in the loading-up, was silent and dull. no life. no spirit. a mournful lot, save for the plum-pudding dog that galloped ahead and on either flank, smelling and pouncing and tossing his mongrel ears in delight. he belonged to one of the men, a gift from a warm-hearted daughter of france.
a dull lot, i say. i rallied them. i persuaded. i whistled, hoping to put a tune into their dull hearts; and as we swung downhill into riencourt they began to sing. it was but a sorry thin sort of singing though, like a winter sunshine; there was no power behind it, no joy, no spontaneity. suddenly, however, as we came into the village, there was a company of the warwicks falling in, and everyone sang like fury. baker, one of the last draft, was the moving spirit. but he is young to this life, and later on, when the fog had entered their souls again, he said he could not well sing with a pack on. yet is not that the very time to sing, is not that the very virtue of singing, the conquest of the poor old body by the indomitable spirit?
it was a fifteen-mile march. at the third halt i gave half an hour for the eating of bread and cheese. then was the hour of the plum-pudding hound; also appeared a sort of newfoundland 91 collie, very big in the hind-quarters, and very dirty as well as ill-bred. between them they made rich harvest of crusts and cheese. we sat on a bank along the road, but after half an hour we were all getting cold in the raw air, and i fell them in again, and we got on our way. soon they warmed up and whistled and sang for a quarter of an hour; then silence returned, and eyes turned to the ground again. this march began to tell on the older men. halford fell out, and i sent corporal dewey to bring him along, hastily scribbling the name of our destination on a slip torn from my field-message book, and giving it to him. then riley fell out, and flynn. i began to dread the appearance of sergeant hayman from the rear, to tell me of some one else. they were men, these, who had been employed on various jobs; the older and weaker men. there was no skrim-shanking, for there was no red cross cart behind us. but no one else fell out; the pace was steady and they were as fit as anything, these fellows. then happened an incident. we had just turned off the main amiens road, and come to a forked road. i halted a moment to make sure of the way by the map, and while i did so apparently some sergeant from a regiment billeted in the village there told sergeant hayman that the battalion had taken the left road. the way was to the right, and as i struck up a steep hill, sergeant hayman ran up and told me the battalion (which had started nearly two hours before us) 92 had gone to the left. ‘i’m going to the right, sergeant,’ said i. and the sergeant returned to the rear. up, up, up. grind, grind, grind. i began to hear signs of doubt behind. ‘did you hear that? said the battalion went t’other way,’ and so on. ‘ain’t ’e got a map all right?’ from a believer. ‘three kilos more,’ i said at the next stop. but some of the fellows had got it into their heads, i could see, that we were wrong. i studied the map; there was no doubt we were all right. yet a mistake would be calamitous, as the men were very done. ah! a kilo-stone! ‘two kilos to ——,’ a place not named on the map at all. this gave me a qualm; and behind came the usual mispronunciations of this annoying village on the stone. but lo! on the left came a turning as per map. round we swung, downhill, and suddenly we were in a village. another qualm as i saw it full of jocks. the doubters were just beginning to realise this fact, when we turned another corner, and almost fell on top of the c.o.! in five minutes we were in billets....”
the next day we marched to the village of querrieux. there i heard the guns again after two months.
“31st january. this evening was full of the walking tour spirit, the spirit of good company. we were billeted at a farmhouse, and the farmer 93 showed captain dixon and me all round his farm. he was full of pride in everything; of his horses first of all. there were three in the first stable, sleek and strong; then we saw la mère, a beautiful mare in foal; then lastly there was ‘piccaninny,’ a yearling. all the stables were spotlessly clean, and the animals well kept. but to see him with his lambs was best of all. the ewes were feeding from racks that ran all along both sides of the sheds, and his lantern showed two long rows of level backs, solid and uniform and dull; while in the middle of the shed was a jocund company of close-cropped lambs, frisking, pushing, jostling, or pulling at their dams; as lively and naughty a crew as you could imagine. ‘ah! voleur,’ cried our friend, picking up a lamb that was stealing a drink from the wrong tap, and pointing to its dam at the other end of the shed; he fondled and stroked it like a puppy, making us hold it, and assuring us it was not méchant!
at 7.0 we had our dinner in the kitchen. the farmer, his wife, and the domestique (a manservant, whose history i will tell in a few minutes) had just finished, and were going to clear off; but we asked them to stay and let us drink their health in whiskey and soda. the farmer said this was wont to make the domestique go ‘zigzag’; for himself, he would drink, not for the inherent pleasure of the whiskey, which was a strong drink to which he was unused, he being of the land of light wines, but to give us pleasure! so the usual healths were given in 94 old orkney and perrier. then we were told the history of the domestique, which brought one very close to the spirit in which france is fighting. he had eight children in peronne, barely ten miles the other side of the line. called up in september, 1914, he was in the trenches until march, 1915, when he was released on account of his eight children. but by then the living line had set between them in steel and blood, and never a word yet has he heard of his wife and eight children, the youngest of whom he left nine days old! there are times when our cause seems clouded with false motives; but there seemed no doubt on this score to-night, as we watched this man in his own land, creeping up, as it were, as near as possible to his wife and children and home, and yet barred from his own village, and without the knowledge even that his own dear ones were alive. the farmer told us he had gone half crazed. yet he had a fine face, though furrowed with deep lines down his forehead. ‘ten minutes in the yard with the germans—ah! what would he do!’ and vividly he drew his hand across his throat. but the germans would never go back: that was another of his opinions. no wonder he told us he doubted the bon dieu: no wonder he sometimes went zigzag.
the farmer was well educated, and had very intelligent views on the war; one son was a captain; the other was also serving in some capacity. the wife made us good coffee, but got very sleepy. i 95 learnt she rose every morning at 4.0 a.m. to milk the cows.
to-night we can hear the guns. there seems a considerable liveliness at several parts of the line, and strange rumours of the germans breaking through, which i do not believe. to-morrow we shall be within the shell-zone again.”
“feb. 1st. to-day we marched to morlancourt and are spending the night in huts. it is very cold, and we have a brazier made out of a biscuit tin, but it smokes abominably. we are busy getting trench-kit ready for the next day. from outside the hut i can see star-lights, and hear machine-guns tapping. it thrills like the turning up of the footlights.”
and it was a long act. the curtain did not fall till june.
