But the wasps were still buzzing. Another man began to groan loudly:

"Gawd—this is bloody awful—why the bloody 'ell can't they leave us alone!"

Thereupon his neighbour tried to create an impression by appearing calm and philosophical. He said in a strained, breaking voice:

"Think of all the waste in life and treasure this frightful war involves. Think of the moral degradation. Think of the widows and orphans. Think of the...." He was unequal to the effort and his voice trailed away and then seemed to catch in his throat. But he recovered and with a kind of gasp he squeezed out a few more words: "Bill, forgive me for insulting you to-day—I didn't mean it, Bill. Forget it, Bill, forget it! If you get killed without forgiving me, my conscience will always torture...."

"For Christ's sake shut up, yer bleed'n' 'ypocrite," interrupted the gruff voice of "Bill" somewhere out of the darkness. "Yer always bleed'n' well preachin'—it's bad enough 'avin' Fritz over us without you bloody well rubbin' it in. If yer don't shut yer mouth, I'll come over an' shut it for yer, 'struth I will."

The philosopher said no more, but another voice made itself heard, that of a good-natured, elderly bachelor, who said with melancholy resignation:

"It's jolly hard, all the same, to be knocked out like this. You're so helpless—no dug-outs, no shelters anywhere...."

"It's doubly hard when you're married," said another. "I haven't got the wind up about myself at all, but I can't help thinking about my wife.... They're going away now, thank the Lord. You never know when they won't be coming back though—that's just the worst of it."

The noise of the propellers was indeed dying away.

Several voices muttered "Thank God," but one man's teeth were still chattering as though he was so absorbed by his own fear that he had not noticed the disappearance of its cause. Soon there was complete silence and one by one we fell asleep.

Another clear day and another clear night. We lay awake listening anxiously to the bursting of bombs and the muttering of anti-aircraft fire. But we went to sleep in the end and felt drowsy all the following day—a clear day. Casualties came in from a camp that had been bombed overnight, and we saw shattered limbs, smashed heads, and lacerated flesh. Several of our men were looking pale through lack of sleep and had dark rings round their eyes.

Another clear night. The agonizing vigil began again, but I was so weary that I went to sleep a few minutes after lights out. Sullen thunders mingled with my dreams and did not wake me up.

Another clear day. Would the fine weather never end? Late in the afternoon, however, a few clouds collected on the horizon. In the evening the entire sky was overcast and not a star was to be seen. And as we went to bed we heard the rain swishing down upon the canvas roof. The unspeakable joy we all felt at the prospect of an untroubled night!

"Bloody fine, this rain: we'll get some proper sleep now, thank God. I never had the wind up so much in all my life, and I've been out here since '15 and in some pretty hot places too."

"I reckon the longer yer out 'ere the windier yer get. I joined up in '14 like a bloody fool. At first I didn't care a damn for anything. Then I was wounded on the Somme an' sent across to Blighty. I dreaded comin' back agin. I only 'ad a little wound in me 'and, an' I used ter plug it wi' dubbin' an' boot-polish ter keep it raw. It didn't 'alf 'urt, but it gave me a extra week or two in 'orspittle. I 'ad to go in the end though—the M.O. didn't 'alf give me a tellin' orf. Jesus Christ, didn't I 'ave the wind up when we went up the line! An' now I'm scared at the slightest sound, an' I sometimes wake up out o' me sleep shiverin' all over. When I was on leave a motor-car backfired in the street—it didn't 'alf make me jump; me mate 'oo was with me said I looked as white as a sheet. The longer yer out 'ere the worse yer get—it's yer nerves, yer know, they can't stand it. In the line it's always the new men what's the most reliable...."

"That's a bloody fact. When we first come out, I thought all the Belgian civvies a lot o' bloody cowards takin' cover whenever Fritz came over. We used to stand an' look at 'im. They wasn't cowards, it was us who was bloody fools. They knew summat about it, we didn't. All the same, I know one or two old reg'lars 'oo was in it from the first an' never 'ad the wind up any time—there's not many like that though, generally it's the old soldiers what's the worst o' the lot for wanglin' out o' risky jobs."

"Napoleon was right," observed a small, red-haired lance-corporal, whose remarks generally had a sardonic touch, "when he said the worse the man the better the soldier. It's only people who have no imagination and no intelligence who are courageous in modern war. Nobody with any sense would expose himself unnecessarily and rush a machine-gun position or do the sort of thing they give you a V.C. for. Of course, there are a few cases where it's deserved, and it isn't always the one who deserves it that gets it. I'm quite certain the refined, sensitive, imaginative kind of man is no good as a soldier. He may be able to control himself better than the others at first—educated people are used to self-control—but in the long run his nerves will give way sooner. Moral courage is a thing I admire more than anything, but there's no use for it in the army, in fact it's worse than useless in the army. The man who's too servile to be capable of feeling humiliation and too stupid to understand what danger is—that's the man who makes a good, steady soldier. We've seen men so horribly smashed up by bombs that it makes you sick to look at them, and then people expect us not to be afraid of air-raids. The civvies haven't seen that sort of thing, so they may well show plenty of pluck, although I believe there are a good many with enough imagination to have the wind up when there's an air-raid on."

"Bloody true. You know, if there was a lot o' civvies an' a lot of Tommies in a Blighty air-raid, I reckon the civvies'd show more pluck than the Tommies. My mate who's workin' on munitions told me 'e saw 'underds o' soldiers rushin' to take shelter in the last raid on London. O' course there was crowds o' civvies doin' the same, but 'e says there was a lot what didn't seem to care a damn. The other day we 'ad a bloody parson spoutin' to us—'e said war brings out a man's pluck an' makes an 'ero of 'im. I reckon that's all bloody tosh! War makes cowards of yer, that's the 'ole truth o' the matter, I don't care what yer say. I didn't know what fear was afore I joined the army. I know now, you bet! I'm a bloody coward now—I don't mind admittin' it. There's things I used ter do what I wouldn't dare do now. When we go up the line I'm in a blue funk from the time I 'ears the first shell burst to the time we goes over the top. An' when we goes over I forgets everythink an' don't know what I'm doin'. P'raps I'll get a V.C. some day wi'out knowin' what I done ter get it. And I'm not the only one like that. Anyone 'oo's bin out 'ere a few months an' says 'e ain't windy up the line's a bloody liar, there now...."

"By the way," I interrupted, "how did that orderly who works in the theatre get his Military Medal—he had the wind up more than any of us the other night?"

"I know whom you mean," answered a private of the R.A.M.C. "He got it that bombing-stunt a few months ago. It was bloody awful too—the worst thing I've ever been in. I was standing next to him when the first one exploded. He flopped down and lay flat on the ground, but I rushed away into the fields with a lot of others. When it was all over we went back and heard the wounded crying out in a way that was dreadful to hear. This fellow was still lying on the ground by the duckboards, trembling all over and paralysed with fear. We went to help the wounded, but he was in such a state that he could not come with us, so we left him behind. There was an inquiry afterwards and we got into a frightful row for running away. He got the M.M. for sticking to his post!"



VII

THE GERMAN PUSH

"What madness there is in this arithmetic that counts men by the millions like grains of corn in a bushel.... A newspaper has just written about an encounter with the enemy: 'Our losses were insignificant, one dead and five wounded.' It would be interesting to know for whom these losses are insignificant? For the one who was killed?... If he were to rise from his grave, would he think the loss 'insignificant'? If only he could think of everything from the very beginning, of his childhood, his family, his beloved wife, and how he went to the war and how, seized by the most conflicting thoughts and emotions, he felt afraid, and how it all ended in death and horror.... But they try to convince us that 'our losses are insignificant.' Think of it, godless writer! Go to your master the Devil with your clever arithmetic.... How this man revolts me—may the Devil take him!"

(ANDREYEFF.)

Throughout the winter one question above all others was discussed by the few who took an interest in the war: "What were the Germans going to do?" It was clear that they had been able to withdraw many divisions from their Eastern Front. Would they be numerically equal or superior to the Allies on the Western Front?

On the whole we were of opinion that, whatever happened, our positions would prove impregnable, although we observed with some astonishment that there were no extensive trench systems or fortified places behind our lines. I doubted whether the Germans would even attempt to break through—I thought they would merely hold the Western Front and throw the Allies out of Macedonia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia.

The winter was over and the fine weather had set in. For several months we had been working in a wood-yard and saw-mills. Our lives had become unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our dreariness. The hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. I often contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the mild sunshine. At times I was so filled with the sense of physical well-being, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and colour, that I even forgot the war.

At the bottom of the wood-yard was a little stream, and on the far bank clusters of oxlips were in bloom. Here we would lie down during the midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. It seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. Moreover, it was rumoured that leave was going to start. How glorious it would be to spend a sunny May or June in England!

Once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds of the yard. As a rule, I was filled with impatience and irritation at having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. One day, when we were lined up between two large huts, a deep Yellow Brimstone butterfly came floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.

I held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "I will enjoy this lovely day to the full. When we get back to camp I will do without the repulsive army fare, I will dine at the St. Martin and buy a bottle of the best French wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. And then I'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there I'll lie all the evening and dream or read a book."

The whistle sounded. It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of long grass and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.

Before the war—before the war—I repeated the words to myself. They conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost for ever. But I wouldn't think about it. I would enjoy the present. But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost their souls, began to reassert itself.

But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end—I would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again, calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach the little village, the main street winding between white houses and flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask: "Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the war. My dream had vanished.

But I would make the best of things. I would enjoy the immediate present—was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?

Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type—a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches. The tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes. The cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight. I abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out before me and forgot the war once again.

And then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia coloured mass rose towering out of the ground. There was a rending, deafening, double thunder-clap that seemed to split my head. For a moment I was dazed and my ears sang. Then I looked up—the black mass was thinning and collapsing. The cow had disappeared.

I walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. All the men had left the sheds and were flocking into the road. Some were strolling along in leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some looked anxious, and some were very pale.

We crossed the road and the railway. Then, traversing several fields, we came to a halt and waited. We waited for nearly an hour, but nothing happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard.

Some of us walked to the spot where the shell had burst. There was a huge hole, edged by a ring of heaped-up earth, and loose mould and grassy sods lay scattered all round. Here and there lay big lumps of bleeding flesh. The cow had been blown to bits. The larger pieces had already been collected by the farmer, who had covered them with a tarpaulin sheet from which a hoof protruded.

The next day, at about the same hour, the dark cloud again rose from the ground and the double explosion followed. We again abandoned the yard and waited in the field. But this time there were several further shell-bursts. No dull boom in the distance followed by a long-drawn whine, but only the earth and smoke thrown darkly up and then the deafening double detonation.

The next day more shells came over, and the next day also.

The big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many places. No damage of "military importance" had been done. Not even a soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.

At night the sky was alive with the whirr of propellers, and shells whistled overhead and burst a long way off.

One Sunday, toward the end of March, when we had a half-holiday, I walked up the hill that was crowned by a large monastery and sat down on the slope by a group of sallows. They were in full bloom. A swarm of bees and flies were buzzing round. Peacock and Tortoiseshell butterflies were flitting to and fro. The sunlight filtered down through the bluish haze. I rested and let an hour or two slip by. Then I got up and crossed a little brook and strolled along a narrow path that wound its way through a copse. The ground was starred with wood-anemones, oxlips, violets, cuckoo-flowers, and in damp places with green-golden saxifrage. I came to a small cottage that had pots of flowers in every window. I sat down while a hospitable old woman made coffee and chattered volubly in Flemish. Another soldier arrived soon after. Had I heard the news? The Germans had broken through on the Somme and had captured Bapaume. I asked him if he had seen it in print. No, he had heard it from an A.S.C. driver. He hoped it wasn't true, but he feared it was.

I returned to camp full of suppressed excitement.

Something was wrong. The shelling of the back-areas continued; air-raids became more and more frequent. These were ominous signs.

Then the newspapers arrived. The Somme front had collapsed. The Fifth Army was in full retreat. The Germans had taken Bapaume and Peronne and were threatening Amiens.

* * * * *

Had I been living in Germany during the war I would have felt a powerful tendency to defend the cause of the Allies, to excuse their misdeeds, to overrate their ability, while being highly critical and censorious of every German shortcoming.

A nation at war is a mob whose very blatancy, injustice and cruelty drive one to hatred and opposition. The enemy mob seems less detestable because it is out of sight and one thinks almost involuntarily: "It cannot be as bad as our own."

I could not bear to hear a victory joyfully announced. The jubilation and the self-glorification of the crowd filled me with loathing, and I could only think of the intensified slaughter and misery that are the price of every victory. They who pay the price, they alone have the right to rejoice, but they do not rejoice. The German mob revealed its depravity when it hung out flags in the streets to celebrate the first German victories. And, when the first battle of Cambrai was won, London jeered at the bereaved and mocked the dead by ringing the joy-bells.

Every genuine patriot is called a traitor in his own country. But patriotism, however genuine, is a thing that must be surmounted. There is only one good that war can bring to a nation—defeat. A patriot, loving his own country, would therefore wish his country defeat in war. But he who has surmounted his patriotism and has attained complete impartiality would not selfishly claim the only benefit of war entirely for his own country, but would desire all to share it alike, and would therefore wish defeat for every warring nation.

If a horde of British and a horde of German soldiers engage in mutual butchery, and if the maimed, broken remnants of the British horde have just enough order left to drive back the remnants of the German horde, leaving innumerable dead and wounded and for ever darkening the lives of countless friends and wives—in other words, if the British army wins what our infamous Press would call a "glorious victory"—then all that is evil in the life of the nation is encouraged and justified. It is then that the diplomatists who lied and schemed to bring on the monstrous event, that all the politicians who exploit and foster the nation's madness and misery to enhance their own reputations, that those who batten on the slaughter, and that those who glorify the carnage at a safe distance and fight the enemy with their lying tongues, are justified. They all are justified. But if, instead of victory, there is defeat, then they tremble lest they should be disgraced and lose their places, lest they should be victims of a disillusioned people's anger, lest they should forfeit their plunder, lest they should be called to account for the lies with which they fooled the masses. Defeat is the defeat of evil, victory is the victory of evil.

* * * * *

A second batch of papers arrived. The German advance was continuing. The British reverse was becoming catastrophic. At first I felt a kind of grimness, and then I was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of the war might be near. We might not have a good peace, but peace of any kind was preferable to war. The mendacious Press talked much about a "dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as a prolonged war.

But the immediate reality became too overwhelming. Grey multitudes were sweeping khaki multitudes before them. High-explosives, shrapnel, grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the living flesh and muscle and bone. Towns and villages were being turned into heaps of brick and wreckage. Hordes of old men, women, and children were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.

We went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now had something to talk about. Would the Germans reach the coast? If they did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. A general retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. We stood in groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.

One day we were returning from work and passing through the village. A crowd of civilians was standing round the window of the Mairie, where a written notice was exposed. An old woman dressed in black was moaning, "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu." The '19, '20, and '21 classes had been called up.

Then the German advance came to an end. A French army had arrived and saved the situation. The shelling of the back areas had ceased. The danger was over for a time.

Had the Germans assembled all their strength for one supreme attempt at breaking through the Western Front? Or was it only the beginning of a whole series of operations?

One morning, as we woke up, we heard the roar and rumble of a bombardment. We did not take much notice of it, for we had heard the sound so often.

We paraded, and marched off to work. The continuous roar gradually gave place to irregular, though frequent, outbursts of firing along the entire front.

The next day the sound seemed to have come nearer. Rumours began to circulate—it was said that Armentieres had fallen, that the Portuguese had been annihilated at Merville, that the British had counter-attacked and taken Lille.

Rations, newspapers and letters were delayed. Large bodies of troops passed through the village. We got no definite or official news, and nobody had any clear notion of what was happening.

But the sound of firing grew louder and louder and our anxiety deepened. There could no longer be any doubt about it—the Germans were advancing on our front.

The sickening certainty transcended all other considerations. A few miles from us thousands were being slaughtered. I ceased to ponder the problems of failure and success. I forgot the politicians and was conscious of only one despairing wish, that the terrible thing might come to an end. Victory and defeat seemed irrelevant considerations. If only the end would come quickly—nothing else really mattered.

I often wondered what was in the minds of the other men. Many of them looked anxious, but on the whole they were normal in their behaviour. They grumbled and quarrelled much as usual and talked rather more than usual—but so did I, in spite of my intense mental agitation.

The sound of firing grew louder.

We marched to an extensive R.E. park and saw-mill near a railway siding. We had to dismantle the machinery and load everything of any value on to a train. For several hours five of us dragged a huge cylinder and piston along the ground. We toiled and perspired. We made a ramp of heavy wooden beams in front of the train and then we slowly pushed the iron mass into a truck. We went back and, raising a big fly-wheel on its edge and supporting it with a wooden beam under each axle, we rolled it painfully along, swaying from side to side.

Then there came the long-drawn familiar whine, and the black smoke arose behind some trees a hundred yards away and the thunder-clap followed. A jagged piece of steel came whizzing by and lodged in a stack of timber behind us.

We pushed the wheel up the ramp and returned to fetch heavy coils of wire, bundles of picks and shovels, sacks and barrels of nails. Our backs and shoulders ached, our hands and finger-tips were sore.

Another shell came whining over. It burst by a little cottage. Its thunder made our ears sing. The fragments of flying metal made us duck or scatter behind the stacks.

We worked until we almost dropped with sheer fatigue. Iron rods and bars for reinforcing pill-boxes, bags of cement, boxes of tools, parts of machinery, all went on to the train. Then we entered a big shed, where a number of tar-barrels stood in a row. We rolled them out and placed them by the timber stacks. We laid a pick beside each barrel so that it could be broached, the tar set alight, and the entire park destroyed at a moment's notice.

It was dark when we stopped work. We reached camp after an hour's wearisome marching. We waited in a long queue outside the cook-house. The cooks served out the greasy stew as quickly as they could, but we were so tired and ill-tempered that we shouted abuse at them without reason and without being provoked, and banged our plates and tins. The war, the advance, the slaughter were forgotten. We were conscious of nothing but weariness, stiffness, and petty irritation.

The following day we marched to a ration dump. The wooden cases of rations were piled up in gigantic cubes, so that the entire dump looked like a town of windowless, wooden buildings. We formed one long file that circled slowly past the stacks, each man taking one case on to his shoulder or back and carrying it to the train. And so we circled round and round throughout the monotonous day.

In the evening I did not wait in the dinner queue, but went to the St. Martin. It was kept by an old woman and her two daughters. They were tortured by anxiety:

"Les Allemands vont venir ici—de Shermans come heer?" they asked. But I knew no more than they did. I told them, against my own conviction, that the German advance would be held up, but they remained anxious. The uproar of the cannonade was louder than ever. All the windows of the building shook and rattled. The old woman muttered: "'Tis niet goet, 'tis niet goet," and the elder daughter echoed: "Oh, 'tiss no bon, 'tiss no bon."

Two British officers entered. They looked round and saw that private soldiers were sitting at the tables. But the St. Martin was the biggest estaminet in the village and provided the best wines and coffees, so they stood in the doorway, undecided what to do. They asked one of the girls if there was a restaurant for officers in the neighbourhood. She answered: "No—no restaurant for officeerss—you come heer—privates, zey no hurt you—privates, officeerss, all same."

Encouraged by these assurances, one of the newcomers said to the other:

"Come on, let's sit down here and have a coffee—we needn't stop long."

All the smaller tables were occupied, but there was one long table that stretched across the room and only a few men were sitting at the far end of it. The officers sat down at the near end and ordered coffee. They seemed a little embarrassed at first, but they soon began to talk freely to each other:

"I wonder if there's a war on in these parts—I hear the Huns have made a bit of a push."

"Curse the blighters—they'll mess up my leave, it's due in a week's time."

"Jolly good coffee, this! Here, Marie, bring us another two cups—der coop der caffay—that's right, isn't it?"

"Dat's right," said the girl, "you speak goot French—vous avez tout a fait l'accent parisien."

Suddenly her sister came running into the room, sobbing loudly:

"English soldier come round from Commandant—he tell us Shermans come—ve got to go 'vay at once, ve got to leave everysing—ve go 'vay and English troops steal everysing and shellss come and smash everysing and ve looss everysing."

The civilians of the village had received orders to leave immediately. Through the window we could see groups of people standing in the street and talking together. They were greatly agitated.

The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. The elder daughter was packing a few things in a bundle. One of the officers asked: "What about our coffee?" but she took no notice. Her sister had gone out in search of further information.

She soon returned. Yes, they would all have to leave at once, but, if they liked to take the risk, they could come back to-morrow with a wagon, if they could get one, and fetch their belongings.

They were comforted. They knew where they would be able to get a wagon. They would cart their stock and their household property away on the morrow. They would start another estaminet somewhere. They would suffer loss and inconvenience, but they would not be ruined—their valuable stock of wines would save them from that.

The bundle was made up and they prepared to leave. We paid our bill and went out into the street. Numbers of soldiers were straggling past. They looked wretched and exhausted. Their boots and puttees were caked with mud. They had neither rifles nor packs. Three men were lying up against a garden wall. We asked them for news. They could not tell us much, except that the Germans were still advancing.

"We was at Dickebusch when 'e started slingin' stuff over—gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf wallop yer—umpteen of our mates got bleed'n' well biffed. We cleared out afore it got too 'ot."

Several famished "battle-stragglers" had entered our camp in order to beg for food. They sat round the cook-house and ate in gloomy silence.

In the adjoining field a number of tents had sprung up. Blue figures were moving in and out amongst them. The French had arrived.

The next morning, about breakfast time, the first shell burst near the camp—a short rapid squeal followed by a sharp report. The second shell burst a few minutes after, throwing up earth and smoke. A steel fragment came sailing over in a wide parabola and struck the foot of a man standing in the breakfast queue. He limped to the first-aid hut, looking very pale. When he got there, he had some difficulty in finding his wound, it was so slight.

We paraded and marched off. Several shells burst in the neighbouring fields. We reached the ration dump and began to load the train. A civilian arrived with the newspapers. Our N.C.O.'s were powerless to stop the general stampede that surged towards the paper-vendor.

The Germans had advanced on a wide front ... Armentieres had fallen. The news was several days old and much might have happened since.

We went back to our work and discussed events. We were bullied and threatened with arrest, but we talked in groups while we carried cases of rations. Would we be involved in the advance? We might even be captured—that would at least be an experience and a change.

In the evening a few of us went to the St. Martin to see if the old woman and her daughter had been able to fetch their property away. We observed that the windows, where tinned fruit, chocolate, cakes, soap, postcards, and other articles used to be exhibited, had been cleared completely. We entered and found one of the girls in tears:

"All gone—all gone—I show you—you come into de cellar—all de wine gone—bottles all, all broken. English soldiers come in de night and take everysing 'vay—ve nussing left—it's de soldiers in de camp over zair in de field—zey plenty drunk dis morning—ve lose everysing—ve poor now."

Besides the windows, the till and the shelves had been cleared, and empty drawers and boxes had been thrown on to the floor. We went down into the cellar. All the cases had been opened and the stone floor was littered with empty and broken bottles. The girl began to sob again when she saw the ruin that had been inflicted:

"All gone, all gone—ve poor now."

"Why don't you complain to the Town Major?" one of us suggested.

"Complain?—vat's de use complain?—de Town Major, he nice man, he kind to us, but he no find de soldiers dat come, and if he find zem he punish zem but ve get nussing. Vat's de use punish zem if ve get nussing? All gone, ve poor now—oh, dis var, dis var—dis de second time ve refugeess—ve lose eversing 1914, ve come here from Zandvoorde and ve start again—ve do business vis soldiers, soldiers plenty money, ve do goot business, and now ve refugeess again and ve novair to go. If de Shermans come, ve do business vis de Shermans—but de shells come first and ve all killed—ah, dis var, dis var! Vat's de use fighting? All for nussing! Var over, me plenty dance!"

We ascended the cellar stairs. The mother was in the main room, wiping her eyes. We said good-bye to her and her daughter, feeling ashamed of our uniforms, and walked out into the street.

A mass of French cavalry were galloping past. It was growing dark. The cannonade had become deafening. Over the town a few miles off there was a crimson glare in the sky.

A horde of civilians was thronging the main street of the village. Old men and women were carrying all that was left to them of their property on their backs. Others were pushing wheelbarrows heaped up with clothes and household utensils. Girls were carrying heavy bundles under their arms and dragging tired, tearful children along. White-faced, sorrowful mothers were carrying peevish babies. Great wagons, loaded with furniture and bedding, and whole families sitting on top, were drawn by lank and bony horses. A little cart, with a pallid, aged woman cowering inside, was drawn painfully along by a white-haired man. They passed by us in the gathering gloom, and there seemed to be no end to these straggling multitudes of ruined, homeless people who were wandering westwards to escape the disaster that threatened to engulf us all.

The eastern sky flickered with vivid gun-flashes and scintillated with brilliant shell-bursts. The night was full of rustling noises and sullen thunder-claps, while a more distant roaring and rumbling seemed to break against some invisible shore like the breakers of a stormy sea.

We retired to our huts and tents. Soon after lights-out the Police Corporal came round and shouted:

"Parade at 4.45 to-morrow morning in marching order."

The tumult increased as though the surge were coming nearer and nearer. Shells of small calibre passed overhead with a prolonged whistle and burst with a hardly audible report. The thunder of bigger explosions shook the huts and caused the ground to tremble.

As I woke the next morning the din of the cannonade broke in upon my senses with a sudden impact. Rumbling, thundering, bellowing, rushing, whistling, and whining, the tumult seemed all around and above us. Sudden flashes lit up the whole camp so that for fractions of seconds every hut and tent was brilliantly illuminated. Multitudes of dazzling stars appeared and disappeared.

We drew our breakfast and packed up our belongings. All was confusion in the hut.

We paraded, the roll was called, and as the day began to dawn we marched off.

We passed down the main road in long, swaying columns of fours. We left the woodyard behind us and hoped it would be destroyed—how we hated the place for the dreary months we had spent there! The westward stream of refugees had ceased, but an eastward stream of French infantry and field artillery thronged the roads. The artillerymen were mostly tall and powerfully built. The infantry were nearly all elderly men of poor physique. They looked desperately miserable. We exchanged greetings:

"It's a good war!"

"C'est une bonne guerre!"

And then we broke into song:

"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh it's a lovely war!"

The French did not sing, but we, who were escaping destruction, passed from one song to another:

"I don't want to fight the Germans, I don't want to go to war, I'd sooner be in London, Dear old dirty London."

And

"Far, far from Ypers, I'd like to be, Where German snipers Can't get at me."

And

"When this bloody war is over, O how happy I shall be, When I get my civvy clothes on, No more soldiering for me."

and all the other songs familiar to every soldier in the British army.

We marched all day along straight roads running in between flat fields and past ugly little villages. As we grew tired and footsore our rollicking spirit abated and the singing died down.

Towards nightfall we halted in a large meadow with a pond in one corner. Several lorries loaded with tents were waiting for us. We unloaded them, pitched the tents, crept into them, and went to bed.

The rumble of the cannonade sounded faintly in the far distance.

"I reckon it's a bloody shame to let the other Tommies and the Frenchies...."

The voice seemed to die away into a drawl as weariness overcame me. I continued to hear the sound of words for a little while, but they conveyed no meaning. And then sleep descended and brought entire oblivion.



VIII

HOME ON LEAVE

"I have several times expressed the thought that in our day the feeling of patriotism is an unnatural, irrational, and harmful feeling, and a cause of a great part of the ills from which mankind is suffering; and that, consequently, this feeling should not be cultivated, as is now being done, but should, on the contrary, be suppressed and eradicated by all means available to rational men."

(TOLSTOY.)

A change had come over us all. Instead of long spells of dreary silence interrupted by outbursts of irritability, by grumbling and by violent quarrels over nothing, there was animated conversations and sometimes even gaiety. Our talk was all about one subject—not about peace, for we had abandoned all hope of peace and hardly ever thought of it—but about leave. We had been waiting for seventeen months when, without warning, a leave allotment was assigned to our unit. About half a dozen men were going every day and no one knew whose turn would come next. We were full of intense excitement and glad expectation, but also of anxiety in case something should happen to stop our leave altogether.

I made up my mind to enjoy myself thoroughly. I would see parents and friends and forget all about the army and the war. I would be gay and frivolous and go to theatres, music-halls and cafes. And one day I would spend in the British Museum and lose myself in books—that would be just like old times! Of course, our leave would not last for ever and the return journey would be terrible. No doubt the fortnight would pass very quickly, but I determined to enjoy every single hour with deliberation and understanding, and to squeeze every drop of pleasure out of it. How many hours were there in a fortnight? More than three hundred! Many would be wasted in sleep, but still, there would be many left and by dwelling upon each one, the fortnight would seem an age.

* * * * *

An afternoon and an evening in a train that travelled all too slowly. A night and half a day at Calais Rest Camp. How terrible was the rankling impatience that gnawed our hearts as the hours dragged on.

But at last we were on the leave boat. There was another long delay, and then, with a feeling of immense relief, we heard the engines throb and the paddle-wheels begin to turn. I looked overboard and saw white foam hissing along the surface of water rapidly widening between us and the quay.

Seventeen months of exile and slavery had come to an end and before us lay a wonderful fortnight of freedom and happiness. And at the end of the fortnight? There was no need to think of that now.

The sea was blue and smooth and a cool breeze was blowing. We saw the cliffs of England grow larger and larger. Soon we were able to distinguish the town of Dover, the houses clustered round the harbour, and the Castle up on the cliff. It was there that I had begun my career as a soldier more than two years before. How much had happened since then! I felt that I had become a different being altogether.

The boat entered the harbour and ran alongside the quay. A train was waiting for us. We poured out of the ship in two streams that spread out fan-wise and flowed into the carriages.

It was good to sit by the window in a comfortable compartment and lean back against soft cushions.

Glad anticipation and barely suppressed excitement were visible on everybody's face.

The train sped through familiar country: meadows, pastures, cornfields, orchards and woodlands. People waved their handkerchiefs at us from cottage windows.

It was growing dark as the first rows of drab suburban houses began to glide past.

So this was London. I stared out of the window and tried to grasp the tremendous, wonderful fact with all the power of my mind. Somehow or other it did not seem real, but I felt I could make it real by an effort of the will.

Streets and houses and moving people soon crowded the whole view. The people filled me with intense curiosity. I longed to talk to them and find out what they felt and thought about the war.

We entered Victoria Station. I opened the door of the compartment with hasty, trembling hands. I did not wait to change my French money, but hurried out into a street and got on to a 'bus.

London, with its subdued lights, lay all around me. It had not changed since I saw it last, and yet I felt it ought to have changed. The reason was that I had changed. And then I began to fear that I had changed beyond the power of recovery. The oppressive sensation that I was in a dream forced itself upon me. I felt that there was only one reality in the whole world—the war. Would I ever escape from the war? It would come to an end some day, and I would leave the army, but would not the war obsess me until the end of my life? Would I ever be myself again?

But this was not the way to enjoy my leave! I began to feel disappointed at not being so happy as I had expected to be. Why was I not full of rapture? Why did not every object fill me with delight? But I ought to have known that habitual discontent and bitterness and revolt are not shaken off in a few hours or a few days, and that they persist even after their immediate cause has been removed.

I looked round at the other people sitting on the 'bus. I had visited foreign countries in former years, but never before had I felt that I was amongst complete strangers. There are moments when a dog, a horse, or a bird fills us with a sense of the uncanny—its mind is an insoluble mystery, with depths so dark and inscrutable that one feels something that approaches fear and horror. And so it was as I sat on the 'bus. The civilians around me seemed like animals of a different species. They were not human at all—or was it I who was not human?

I went to another seat in order to listen to a man and woman who were talking together. I felt that if they were to talk about the war, the uncanny spell would be broken, the dream would dissolve and I would be restored to my own fellow creatures. But they spoke about trivial domestic matters and about a flower show. If they had only mentioned the word "war" I would have felt relieved by its familiarity, but they did not mention it once.

And then, in great mental agony, I said to myself: "I will be happy, I will enjoy my leave." But a number of invisible cobwebs hung between myself and the world around me. I tried to brush them away, but they were so impalpable that the movement of my hand did not disturb them at all.

I gave up the attempt. I would wait until I got home. Then I would talk and forget myself—only by forgetting myself would I enjoy the present. Only those who forget themselves are happy. The obsession of self is the most oppressive of all burdens.

I descended from a 'bus and took a train. A girl sitting opposite me stared at my blue chevrons and whispered to her fellow passenger: "He's just come from the front." So I too was regarded as a strange kind of animal. I got out at my home-station. I showed my leave-warrant to the ticket collector. He was a benevolent looking old man. He smiled and wished me good luck. Things began to seem a little less foreign. And then the thought of being home in a few minutes absorbed me entirely.

I hurried down the street. I knocked at the door, and it opened. The long yearned-for meeting took place at last.

I threw my pack, equipment and steel helmet contemptuously into a corner. I took an infantile delight in clean, furnished rooms, in the white table-cloth, the shining silver, the cut flowers, and the oil-paintings on the wall. And we talked until late into the night.

It was good to wake up the next morning and to know that the first day of my leave was still before me. I felt encouraged to face my new surroundings boldly. I would understand them and identify myself with them. If the sensation that I was dreaming came upon me again, I would welcome it and then I would destroy it once and for all. I would enjoy my leave at any cost. It would become my only reality, and when it was over it would be a reality which I would take back to the front. I would hoard it and always think of it out there, so that the war would seem like a dream, the end of which I could await with patience and resignation.

I went out to seek friends and acquaintances. I also hoped to meet some war enthusiasts. I would tell them something about the war. How would their theories be able to stand before my actual experiences!

I was soon disillusioned.

I dined with a wealthy kinsman. The slaughter of millions had brought him prosperity. He had never done any fighting except with his mouth, but it is precisely that kind of fighting that infuriates the spirit, engenders heroic ardour, and causes the nostrils to dilate. He was so bellicose that he even desired to do some real righting, not understanding the difference between the two. He thought of joining an infantry unit—the artillery were not good enough, he did not want to fire at an enemy he could not see, he wanted to use the bayonet and murder his fellow men in hand-to-hand encounters.

I began to understand why many men I had met were glad to come back from leave.

I tried to dissuade him, although I felt it would do him good to see something of the war and he would learn a much-needed lesson. And yet I did not want him killed or horribly mutilated, although I knew that he and those like him were alone responsible for the entire war, both at its origins and its continuance.

But he would not be persuaded. He said he was dying to go out and see the fun.

At the word "fun" I felt a sudden and violent contraction of all my muscles. I had an almost irresistible impulse to stand up and strike him across the face. But I was in a public restaurant and I controlled myself. He did not seem to notice anything.

The conversation drifted away from the war and became commonplace. I tried to relate a few of my experiences, but somehow or other they seemed unsuited to the occasion.

I had set out with the intention of destroying a mouldering, tottering edifice built up of illusions and ignorant prejudices, and I found myself face to face with towering, strong, unshakable walls, strong and unshakable precisely because it was built of illusions, lies, and prejudices.

I felt the burden of war descending upon me with all its crushing, annihilating weight. I fought a losing fight against the conviction that for the rest of my leave I would be able to talk of nothing else and think of nothing else but the war. If only I could talk to someone who would understand, that at least would bring relief!

I longed to see my two friends, although I felt some anxiety lest they might have changed, or rather lest they might not have changed with me.

It was in the evening of my first day that we met. At first the one embarrassed me a little by his apparent cold aloofness. But his caustic observations on the war soon made it clear that he had stood the test. I realized, from the hatred that lay behind them, that he had suffered as much as many a soldier in the trenches.

Then the other said to me:

"This is a thing I have never told anyone yet, but I will tell it to you now. There are times when I almost wish I could see German troops marching victoriously through the streets of London. It is not my reason that is speaking now, but my bitterness, which has become stronger than my reason."

I understood him far too well to make any comment.

And then after a long silence, I said: "I wonder if anybody else thinks like that."

And he answered: "Yes, there are many—more than you would believe."

But the first added: "We must remain neutral—that is our one and only duty. The more malevolent our neutrality the better, but it must be neutrality. Remember that there are Germans whose bitterness prompts them to wish that British troops were marching through the streets of Berlin. I think their wish is juster than yours, but both wishes cannot be fulfilled, and it is therefore desirable that the next best thing should happen, namely, that both the Allies and their enemies should be entirely deprived of victory."

I agreed, but added:

"Yes, fundamentally one must remain neutral, but in relation to present circumstances one cannot remain neutral. It is our business to arraign England, our own country, and not Germany. It is for every nation to discover its own faults. There are many Germans of courage and honesty who will condemn their country for the crimes she has committed. But condemnation from outside is useless and is always discredited. In all probability the Allies and the Central Powers are both equally bad, and to denounce the enemy only is mere yelping with the rest of the savage, vindictive pack."

"That is true, but what is the good of saying it, or thinking it! Ignorance, prejudice, and intellectual dishonesty are far stronger than you are. The depravity of mankind is such that only failure and humiliation will carry conviction. Mere words are only wasted. If any nation is completely defeated in this war, then its people will rise against its rulers, whether they are guilty or not, and they will fix all the responsibility of war upon them and upon themselves. There will be a frenzy of self-accusation—whether just or unjust it doesn't matter—and as for the victors, they will say: 'Our enemies admit their guilt, so what further proof is needed?' Where the real guilt is, that is an irrelevant and trivial question. Success or failure will be the sole ultimate criterion. There is only one hope for the world—that failure will be so evenly distributed that there will be anxious heart-searchings in every country. Failure alone makes ignorant people think. Success is taken for granted. Even after a single battle lost, the Press is full of explanations and excuses, but after a battle won, there is only complacency and self-glorification, and questions as to the why and wherefore are considered out of place or even treasonable."

When we parted I was seized with a feeling of intense loneliness, but nevertheless I realized with satisfaction that I was not entirely alone. I also gave up the idea of enjoying my leave and conceived a deep aversion for all pleasures and amusements.

The next day I wandered into the British Museum. The 600,000 volumes that surrounded me on the shelves of the reading-room had a depressing effect. I took out a few books, but was too distracted for serious study.

I almost smiled with self-contempt when I thought how I had set out the previous morning in order to conquer my old world, and how it was now receding further and further from me. I looked at the other readers. They were mostly old men, engrossed in their studies, just as they had been in peace time. I wondered what they thought about the war. I knew they would not allow it to disturb them much or interfere with their studies and their sleep. And after all, why should they care? It was only youth that was being slaughtered on the battlefields and not old age.

The sleepy dullness of the museum became unbearable and I walked out into the street.

I spent the evening with a member of the National Liberal Club, an intimate family friend, whose intellectual arrogance was one of the evil memories of my childhood, when many eager impulses and aspirations had been turned to bitterness by his lofty depreciation and his imperturbable assumption of superiority based on maturer years and experience. Having at different times received material kindnesses at his hands, I knew I could not tell him what I really thought, and the prospect of meeting him filled me with uneasiness. Moreover, in his presence I felt a kind of pride which I did not usually feel in the presence of others—a pride that forbade me to express any sentiment or to reveal my inner mind. And yet my inner mind was clamouring intolerably for revelation. I realized the advantage he would derive from his simple attitude and from his lack of mental integrity, which enabled him to ignore any considerations that did not conform to his preconceived notions, and I realized the disadvantage of my complex attitude, made up as it was of so many conflicting impulses, at war with each other and with the world around me.

My fears were justified.

At first the conversation was commonplace, and I related various experiences in a desultory fashion. Those that were mildly amusing were most appreciated. But gradually we drifted towards more vital issues and then the long and futile argument began. The weapons of sarcasm and denunciation were denied to me by the laws of politeness and etiquette. I beat in vain against the solid walls of obstinate prejudice and superficiality. His statements were uttered with dogmatic emphasis. They expressed beliefs held with all the self-assurance born of ignorance. They were based on no independent reasoning or observation, but had been assimilated either directly from the daily Press or from a circle of acquaintances whose entire political outlook was the creation of the Press. It was only then that I realized the immense power of newspapers.

For most people "thinking" is just the discovery of convenient phrases or labels, such as "pessimist," or "socialist," or "pacifist" or "Bolshevik." When any puzzling mental attitude comes before their notice, they pin one of their labels to it, and, having labelled it, they think they understand it. The Press supplies them with these labels, and, consciously or unconsciously, they store them up in their minds and always have a few ready for immediate use.

So familiar and commonplace were the phrases which my opponent selected from his store in order to reply to my every utterance, that I could almost tell what he was going to say before he said it. Moreover, the fact that he had travelled abroad and had associated with foreigners, instead of widening his view had only narrowed it. Had he never travelled he might have been sufficiently modest to admit that he knew nothing of foreign countries and he might have suspended judgment about them; but the mere fact that he had travelled filled him with a deep conviction that he knew all about the places he had visited, and this conviction, enunciated with pompous emphasis, supplanted the real knowledge and understanding derived from honest observation. Like so many people who do not possess the faculty of experiencing, he continually appealed to his own experience and continually referred to his maturer years, as though old age of itself brought wisdom.

As for the war itself he took no deep interest in it, although he glanced at the war news every day. But to understand it, to analyse its causes, to grasp its significance, to realize its true nature, that he never attempted to do. His labels and his alleged experiences and his years were sufficient to cope with the entire question and answer it satisfactorily for himself. I almost envied him for his self-sufficiency. He would never suffer acutely from any mental strife or agitation due to any but immediate and personal causes. Perhaps such a stable mentality that can without effort reject all inconvenient data is the most desirable of all and the most conducive to happiness. Certain it is that the stability of society and the very existence of civilization itself depend upon the preponderance of that particular type.

I knew that the argument was hopeless. Indeed, it was no argument. It was no exchange of ideas. It was no mutual attempt at discovering truths by an impartial comparison of two different attitudes.

At times there were signs of heat on both sides. My opponent spoke of "our democratic army" (familiar phrase!) and the overbearing manner in which he connected this dictum with a number of false, irrelevant or arbitrary generalizations made me feel a momentary pang of anger and I wished he could experience a term of military service. Nevertheless, there was no actual display of bad temper or emotion and we parted with all the habitual formulae imposed by social decorum.

I knew I had come into contact with the truly representative man. His opinion and the opinions of those like him, they all made up popular opinion. All other opinion was abnormal and negligible. It was with despair that I realized the hopelessness of my own position and that of my friends.

The public did not understand the war and did not want to understand it. It was far away from them and they did not realize the amount of suffering caused by it. It also brought wealth to many who would therefore have regretted its sudden termination. This seems a hard thing to say, but nevertheless it is true. The so-called "working-classes" had developed an appetite for wealth and power that nothing could satisfy. This appetite was being fed continually, but the more it devoured the more voracious it became. Nor did the shameless profiteering of the wealthy tend to allay it in any way. Protests against the war never went beyond the passing of mere resolutions. Those who had sufficient humanity and imagination to hate the war in its entirety and to suffer from it, although not necessarily taking any part in it, were too few and too scattered and isolated to take any effective action.

The extent to which a man can suffer is the precise measure of his merit, and thus it was that our patriots and war-enthusiasts being incapable, by reason of their grossness and vulgarity, of suffering in a spiritual sense, were immune from the misery caused by the war and yet it was they above all others upon whose support the continuance of the war depended.

This was the terrible fatality. The more a man suffered from the war the smaller was his control over it.

Everywhere, those who deserved to suffer did not suffer and those who did not deserve to suffer suffered. And that was why the war went on. Most people were so indifferent that it was impossible to talk to them without anger. I could think of nothing else but the war. I could not escape from its invisible presence. The streets and houses seemed the immaterial creations of some dream, and somewhere behind them the slaughter was going on, and amid the noise of the traffic the throbbing of the bombardment was plainly audible.

Sometimes I felt an impulse to shout from the house-tops like a Hebrew prophet and denounce this most wicked of generations. But the very futility of the idea filled me with mortification.

Our enlightened twentieth century has no use for prophets. Christ Himself would have been arrested as a pacifist or a lunatic if He had spoken His mind in the streets of London. And the clergy would have applauded the imprisonment of a dangerous "pro-German." The scribes and Pharisees were more numerous and more powerful than ever before.

Particularly the scribes.

There never was in all the world an infamy as great as the infamy of our war-time Press. A horde of unscrupulous liars and hirelings spat hatred and malice from safe and comfortable positions. They played the hero when no danger threatened. They defied an enemy who could not reach them. They boasted of the deeds they had not done. They gloried in the victories they did not win. They mouthed frantic protestations of injured innocence when they should have felt the burden of guilty shame. They were mawkishly sentimental when they should have felt keen grief and horror. They denounced murder and they urged others to commit murder. They spewed their venomous slime into every spring of healing water. At a time when clear thinking and balanced judgments were needed more desperately than ever before, they squirted into the air thick clouds of lies, and half-truths, and misleading phrases, and judgments distorted by hatred and warped by malice. And as for those who were either lured on to perpetrate the great iniquity by grandiose and seductive falsehoods or were dragged from their homes and families and sent unwilling to the slaughter, these miserable slaves the Press of all countries urged on, one against the other, brutally deaf to their misery, representing them as glad and cheerful when they had reached the extreme of human suffering, magnifying them into heroes of epic proportions (before they donned their dingy garb of war they were "lice" that had to be "combed out"), endowing them with absurdly impossible virtues—when they were just ordinary human beings in misfortune with no ambition except to live in peace and comfort—and at the same time bestowing lofty patronage upon them and calling them "Tommies" and sending them cigarettes, chocolates and advice, as though they were children to be petted, with no will or intelligence of their own.

The Press, the cinema, the atrocity placards, and propagandist leaflets, they all practised the same deliberate and colossal deceit and kindled hatred against the enemy. And so successful was this diabolical conspiracy that hatred became second nature to vast masses of people. To think evil of the enemy was an article of national faith, and to question this faith, or still more to repudiate it, that was heresy of the most heinous kind. Religion died long ago, but the cult of nationalism that replaced it was infinitely more pernicious in its intolerance and cruelty than religion at its very worst.

Individually men are often good, but collectively men are always bad. The national mob had never been so powerful, nor had it ever been so servile, and that was why its passions were those of the coward and not of the brave man; that was why chivalry and generosity and fair-mindedness were execrated, and only hatred and boastfulness and vindictive malice were allowed to live.

The rapidity with which the time passed was terrifying. Although my leave had produced so much disillusionment, I yet dreaded its termination. Just as my life at the front had made me unfit for life at home, so my short spell of life at home had rendered me unfit for further life at the front. Moreover, I knew that my concrete experiences had done a little towards strengthening and confirming the attitude of my few friends, a consideration that gave me some satisfaction. I thought that in time I might get into touch with other people who shared our attitude and then take part in some anti-war movement and fight against the war instead of in it. That would have been the only activity to which I could have devoted myself with energy and enthusiasm. But I would soon have to go back and be muzzled once more by a ruthless discipline and an all-embracing censorship. Moreover, as my leave approached its end I began to regret that I had not striven harder to enjoy the comforts and freedom of civilian life. The dread of the coming return to slavery and dreary routine began to outweigh every other consideration. The prospect of living in a tent crowded with foul-mouthed, noisy soldiers filled me with dismay. I made a feeble attempt at securing an extension of my leave, but failed, and then I resigned myself to my fate.

One afternoon, towards the end of the fortnight, I went to Kew Gardens with my friend.

The softness of the warm September day, the calm trees, and the flowers that were pure untroubled beauty (how I envied them their dispassionate lives, their tranquil growth, their effortless attainment of perfection, and their unconscious dying!)—all these had a strangely harmonizing influence upon my discordant spirit. We spoke little, and of the war not at all. Indeed, the war suddenly seemed curiously remote and I could hardly hear the throbbing of the guns. I knew that this afternoon would never be lost, that I would often think of it when back at the front. It would remain a dream of tranquil beauty that would haunt me at unexpected moments. I felt that for this alone my leave had been worth while.

The last morning came. I made a successful effort to control myself. I said good-bye. It was all over.

* * * * *

When I got back to camp all the men were out at work. I sat down alone in my tent. I felt slightly dazed, but not as miserable as I had expected to feel. I did not know how to occupy my time. I had brought several books with me, but I felt no inclination to read. Life seemed empty and purposeless. I waited impatiently for the return of the others.

They arrived and the evening passed quickly in talk. My friend, whose place was next to mine, remarked that I was far more cheerful than men returning from leave usually are.

The next day and many days after I was unable to shake off the feeling of mental torpor and a vague regret for what had been and what had gone for ever. My leave seemed like a thing I had dreamt of long ago. Sometimes I asked myself in a puzzled manner: "Have I really been home on leave?"

The end of the war, no one could tell when that would be. But the next leave—it might come in eight or nine months—that was something to look forward to and I began to think of all the things I would do when it actually did come.



IX

ACROSS THE RIDGES

"And Cuchullain ... deemed it no honour nor deemed he it fair to take horses or garments or arms from corpses, or from the dead."

(TAIN BO CUAILGNE, 5th Century).

There were only a few stars visible above, but the whole eastern horizon was flashing and scintillating. Down in the valley, where several British batteries were in action, long thin jets of flame darted forth incessantly.

As the day dawned we could see that the distant ridges were enveloped in drifts of dense, white fog. From time to time patches of the fog would glow redly and then become brilliantly incandescent and throw up sheets of lurid flame. German shells came whistling over and burst with angry, reverberating roars. Black fountains of earth and smoke spurted up from the fields and left slowly thinning clouds that hung suspended for a while and then dissolved in air. Sepia-coloured puffs appearing in the sky above were followed by sharp explosions and the rattle of descending shrapnel.

For several hours the tumult continued unabated and then the whistle of German shells became less frequent until at last it died down altogether.

Towards noon about a hundred German prisoners passed by under armed escort.

The ridges had been taken.

* * * * *

Our new camp lay at the foot of a gloomy hill. A disused trench ran right across it. Rifles, bayonets, bandoliers, grenades, water-bottles, packs, articles of clothing and bits of equipment lay scattered everywhere. Barbed wire rusted in coils or straggling lengths. Rusty tins and twisted, rusty sheets of shrapnel-riddled corrugated iron littered the sodden mud. Water, rust-stained or black and fetid, stagnated in pools and shell-holes. The sides of the trench were moist with iridescent slime. Dead soldiers lay everywhere with grey faces, grey hands and mouldering uniforms. Their pockets were turned inside out and mud-stained letters and postcards, and sometimes a mildewed pocket-book or a broken mirror, were dispersed round every rotting corpse. In front of my tent the white ribs of a horse projected from a heap of loose earth. Near by a boot with a human foot inside emerged from the black scummy water at the bottom of a shell-hole. An evil stench hovered in the air.

We buried all the dead that lay within the camp-lines. Then darkness descended and we crept into our tents.

We were lying on wet, oozy clay, thinly covered with wisps of soaked grass and decaying straw—there had been a cornfield here a year ago.

There were thirteen of us in one tent. We were wedged in tightly, shoulder to shoulder, our feet all in one bunch.

Candles were lit and some of the men sat up and searched their clothes. I was conscious of a slight irritation, but was so tired and depressed that I resolved to ignore it and postpone my usual search to the following day.

But as I lay still, trying hard to fall asleep, the irritation increased. At last it became so maddening that I started up in bitter rage. I lit my candle and pulled off my shirt.

"Chatty [lousy] are yer?" said someone in an amused tone.

"I've got a big one crawling about somewhere," I answered. None of us ever admitted that we had more than one or two, even when we knew we had a great many. It was also considered less disreputable to have one "big one" than two small ones.

"It's the Gink's fault—'e swarms with 'em. I was standin' be'ind 'im in the ranks the other day an' I saw three of 'em crorlin' out of 'is collar up 'is neck. 'E never washes and never changes 'is clothes, so what can yer expect?"

The "Gink" flared up at once:

"Yer god-damn son of a bitch—it's youss guys that never washes. I bet yer me borram dollar I ant got a god-damn chat on me...."

A long wrangle ensued. Wild threats and foul insults were flung about. But the quarrel, like nearly all our quarrels, did not go beyond violent words.

I began to search and soon found a big swollen louse. I crushed it with my thumb-nail so that the blood spurted out. I heard several faint cracks coming from the opposite side of the tent and knew that others were also hunting for vermin.

I examined the seams of my shirt and found two or three more. Then, to my dismay, I discovered several eggs. They are so minute that some are sure to escape the most careful scrutiny. The presence of eggs is always a warning that many nights of irritation will have to pass by before the young grow sufficiently big to be discovered easily.

I thought I had looked at every square inch of my shirt, but I looked at it a second time in order to make sure. I soon found a whitish elongated body clinging tightly to the cloth. Then I found another wedged into the seam.

Meanwhile, my neighbour, who had been tossing about restlessly and scratching himself and sighing with desperate vexation, lit his candle and began to search busily. The sound of an occasional crack showed how successful he was.

The night was warm and sultry. A storm threatened and it was necessary to close the tent flap. I blew out my candle and wrapped myself in my blankets. I was unable to stretch my legs because others were in the way. I was hemmed and pressed in on all sides. I felt an impulse to kick out savagely, but was able to control myself.

The stifling heat became unbearable, and at the same time the cold, clammy moisture from the soft sodden mud underneath began to penetrate ground-sheet and blankets.

The irritation recommenced. A louse so big that I could feel it crawling along stopped and drew blood. I tried in vain to go to sleep. I heard my neighbour scratching himself steadily. Nor could he find a comfortable position to lie in and kept twisting and turning and moaning. The other men were snoring or fidgeting restlessly.

At length a fitful slumber came upon me and a confusion of rotting bodies swarming with monstrous lice passed before my closed eyes. I was fully awake long before reveille, sleepy and unrefreshed, and when reveille came we received orders to move within two hours.

Four of us and one N.C.O. were left behind to load a lorry. And then we, too, packed up and set out to follow the unit.

Thinking to take a short cut across country we ascended the hill-slope, jumping and clambering across shell-holes and striding through long grass and weeds. Now and again we would chance upon some narrow winding track that soon lost itself again amid the tangled growth.

Low clouds burdened the sky and a fine rain began to fall. The top of the hill was hidden in grey mist.

We passed a heap of broken concrete blocks from which the twisted ends of iron rods projected. A little further on a concrete shelter stood intact except for deep vertical fissures. I peered into the narrow entrance that sloped steeply down. I slipped in the soft mud, but by stretching out my arms and clasping the outer wall I just saved myself from falling flat on to a rotting corpse that lay half-immersed in greenish-black water. I drew slowly back, feeling sick with horror.

As we climbed the hill-side the devastation increased. The trees and bushes were torn, splintered and uprooted. Only a few grey trunks remained standing like scarred, bare poles. We approached the summit and crossed shell-hole next to shell-hole, for not a square yard of ground had remained untouched. Some of the holes were wide and deeply funnel-shaped, others were shallow, and others were hardly distinguishable, the earth having been churned and tossed up time after time. On the very top of the hill, there was nothing left of the trees that had densely clothed it a few months before, except fragments of wood and stringy lengths of root. Even the grass and weeds had been destroyed and blasted by the bursting of innumerable shells.

We walked along the crest between upright bundles of splinters that projected from the ground in two parallel rows—all that remained of an avenue of pines and larches.

We descended the further slope by a narrow gulley. Here the shell-holes were less frequent. A miry path led through an abandoned camp—a chaos of riddled and shattered boards and contorted iron sheeting. Dead Frenchmen were lying everywhere. From a drab heap of mud and clothing a human arm projected. The terminal finger-joints had dropped off. The blackened skin was drawn tightly over the back of the hand which seemed to clutch frantically at some invisible object.

A little further on two soldiers were scraping the soil with sticks.

"Gorblimy—'e ain't 'alf rotten—puh—don't 'e stink! I 'ope 'e's got summat in 'is pockets arter we've bin takin' all this trouble."

"Yer never find much on these 'ere Froggies, the rotten bastards. They don't 'ardly get no dibs [money, pay]. Canadians and Aussies—them's the blokes yer want ter look for. Fritz ain't so bad neither. I got a bloody fine watch orf a Fritz last year down on the Somme—sold it to an orficer for thirty bleed'n' francs!"

"Put yer stick under 'im an' 'eave 'im out!"

One of the men pushed his stick obliquely into the ground and levered up the putrefying corpse. The other turned the pockets inside out. A few soiled and mouldy bits of paper came to light, but nothing of any value.

"Just our bastard bleed'n' luck! Let's see if we can't find a Fritz or a Tommy!"

Robbing the dead was always a recognized thing at the front, but our Corporal, who was rather an unsoldierly individual, did not seem to think it quite the proper thing, and shouted:

"What d'you want to rob the dead for? Why don't you leave them alone?"

"What's it got ter do wi' you?" answered one of the treasure-seekers. "Why don't yer mind yer own bleed'n' business? What's the use o' lettin' good stuff go west? A dead un can't do nothin' wi' watches an' rings an' five-franc notes! Gorblimy, 'ave a bit o' sense! It's allus your class o' blokes what makes a bleed'n' fuss!"

Having thus vindicated their rights, the two men turned away in order to continue their search for the legitimate spoils of war.

We walked on and the gulley widened out into a level crater-field. The hill loomed dimly behind us, and, looking ahead through the rain and mist, we could see the reddish blur of a ruined village.

Near a small shell-hole were the remains of a German who had been blown to bits. The clothes, limbs and trunk were in one confused heap. The head lay some distance off; it was quite undamaged. The skin was black and drawn tightly over the skull. The hair was matted, but the short, blonde moustache had been neatly trimmed. The lips were shrivelled, exposing two perfect rows of white teeth, giving the dead face a horrible expression of ferocity. The eyelids were closed and taut, the cracks near the nose revealed the dark, empty eye-cavities underneath.

A little further on lay another head. The face had been smashed and no features were recognizable except the lobe of one ear, behind which there was a deep triangular hole. Two or three yards away there was a booted leg and beyond that a severed hand lying beside a heap of rotting flesh, bone and sodden clothing, all covered with thick brown masses made up of the innumerable empty cases of maggot chrysalids.

We struck a main road. It was dotted with shell-holes that had recently been filled in with bricks and pieces of stone. To the left of the road were many scarred tree-trunks. Some were still erect, others were aslant, while others lay prone, having been broken off short or torn up by the roots. They were all dead and ashen grey. Behind them was a broad ring of stagnant water covered with duckweed. On the island within the ring was a huge heap of loose bricks—a few months ago this had been a picturesque chateau with gabled roofs, surrounded by gardens and a wooded park. Amongst the shell-holes and scattered branches and twisted lengths of white railing, a few michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums, dahlias, and other garden flowers were in bloom.

Further on, to the right of the road, stood the ruins of the church. A few thick pieces of wall were still standing and a part of the steeple pointed upwards like a jagged finger. Heaped up inside were brick-fragments and tiles, together with splintered beams and rafters, riddled sheets of lead and zinc, broken chairs, twisted brass candlesticks, bits of stained glass, and here and there chunks of coloured plaster, the remains of apostolic or saintly images. One of the confessionals was still visible, although all the woodwork was shattered. Of the altar nothing could be seen. Behind a crumbling fragment of brick wall was a band of machine-gun ammunition and a heap of empty cartridge cases.

The big bronze bell lay outside the church in two pieces. The cemetery had been churned by shell-fire. The tombstones were chipped and broken. One big block of granite had been overturned by a bursting shell and the inscription was so scarred as to be illegible. The stone Christ had been hit in many places. His left hand was gone, so that He hung aslant by the other. Both His legs had been blown off at the knees and His nose and mouth had been carried away by some flying shell-fragment or shrapnel-ball. All the graves had been thrown into confusion by the violence of innumerable explosions. Bits of bone—femurs, ribs, lower jaws—lay scattered about. The hip of a soldier who had been buried in his clothes projected from the soil with the brown mass of maggot chrysalids still clinging to it. Two bent knees of a greenish-grey colour, that had only begun to decay, emerged from a patch of trodden mud.

Beyond the church, by the roadside, were the dwelling-houses. Some of them were a tangle of rafters mixed up with heaps of brick and miscellaneous rubbish—stoves, pots and pans, chair-legs, pictures, bedding, boxes, and all kinds of household articles. Others had been dispersed around. Others seemed to have been tipped up bodily, so that all their contents had been spilt into the street, and then to have been dropped back again with such an impact that they had collapsed on their own foundations. The sweet, sickly smell of bodies that had not been decaying long, and the rank, pungent smell of those that were approaching total dissolution emanated from under heaps of wreckage and from hidden cellars.

The devastation increased with every mile and the shell-holes came closer and closer together. Dead horses, shattered guns, wagons, and limbers lay overturned in the ditches. At one spot on the roadside the legs and buttocks of a man, all brown and shrivelled, slanted upwards from a deep, wide rut, many heavy wheels having passed across the small of his back.

Gradually houses, trees and bushes disappeared entirely. We reached the site of a village that before the war had sheltered several thousands of people. Nothing remained except small bits of brick mingling with the bare soil, piled up and scooped and churned and tossed by shell-fire.

Here, too, there were many dead. A little way off the road lay an Englishman who could not have fallen more than a few days before. His hands were clenched, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed and staring. Near him was a tall German. He lay at full length with arms outstretched and legs crossed. His left hand, immersed in a pool, was white and puffy. His right hand was half closed and only slightly wrinkled. His side had been ripped open and fragments of entrail projected from the rent. The water beneath and around him was stained with blood. His pockets were turned inside out and papers and postcards lay scattered around in the usual manner. His cloak had been thrown across his face.

Other bodies had lain unburied for several months; others for several years, and of these only the mud-stained bones were left.

We reached the highest point in the series of so-called ridges. The desolate country spread out before us—miles and miles of low undulations ploughed by shell-fire and bared of everything except an occasional concrete shelter or the splintered stump of a dead tree.

We marched in silence through this dismal land of ruin and desolation. At length, in the distance, we saw a solitary fragment of a brick wall standing in a wide hollow, a sign that we were nearing a habitable region once again.

We passed by riddled German sign-boards—Vormarschstrasse, Hohenzollernstrasse, Kaiserstrasse, Mackensenstrasse, Admiral Scheerstrasse. We came to a litter of wreckage that had once been a village and then we left the main road and entered a little wood, or rather an assembly of scarred tree-trunks leaning at all angles. It was crossed by a zig-zag trench and all the refuse of battle lay scattered about.

An Australian soldier lay on a low mound. His head had dropped off and rolled backwards down the slope. The lower jaw had parted from the skull. His hands had been devoured by rats and two little heaps of clean bones were all that remained of them. The body was fully clothed and the legs encased in boots and puttees. One thigh-bone projected through a rent in the trousers and the rats had gnawed white grooves along it. A mouldy pocket-book lay by his side and several postcards and a soiled photograph of a woman and a child.