Pass Guard at Ypres (6 page)

“Any news of the raid?” Private Beard looked up as Dick Bartlett
entered, shook the water from his hat and wrung out the bottom of his tunic.

“None I've heard of. Where the 'ell's my rations? 'Ere, Bett, you swine, you've bagged my bully beef.”

“Tell yer I ain't—your tin's over there. 'Ave this, too, if yer wants it. Ain't they got nothing but this 'ere bloody bully beef?”

“And can't you do nothing but grouse about yer grub? Damned sight more than yer ever got when yer was down Limehouse, I'll be bound. Chuck over the opener, Beard, old son.”

“Better if it was cooked. But 'ow the 'ell can yer get a fire going, night like this.”

“Just as well. Remember what 'appened last week, time we made a bit o' smoke.”

“Mean when Bob was knocked out? Bit o' bad luck, that's all that was. Can't even do a bit o' cookin' now—it's come to that. Where's granddad?”

“Out with the officer, same as usual.”

“More fool 'im—'e wasn't asked to go. Ought to know better, old soldier like 'im—'e ought to know.”

“Always 'angin' round 'im, yer know 'e is. Watches 'im like a two-year-old. Gawd knows why.”

“Wants it, p'raps.” Dick Bartlett dug vigorously into the tin between his knees. “Bit of a kid, our officer. But he's growin' up. 'Ow's the kids, Beard?”

Beard warmed to the one subject that never failed to awaken interest.

“Ain't so bad. 'Ad a letter today. Bob's got a touch o' croup, and Lil she's teethin', but the missus says—'ere, where's the letter? I'll read yer what the missus says. Where the 'ell's that letter? 'Ere, get up, Bett, you're sittin' on my letter.”

“Pity Brains ain't 'ere—'e'd make something of this bully beef.” Bettson sat immovable, rolling a cigarette. “Gawd's sake, leave off shoving me about, yer blighter. 'Ow do I know where yer letter is? 'Tain't even as if it was good bully, because it ain't. Dish o' hot Maconochie now—”

“Or pork and beans—with the pork absorbed into the beans, same as what the good book says.” Bartlett walked to the opening of the dug-out to watch the rain hissing past the sandbags into the black water at his feet.

“Bloody fools, them fellers that volunteered to go tonight. Don't suppose they'll get there. If they do they won't get back. Like 'ell tonight. 'Ullo, there's the star shells going up. That'll be them arriving. That's it—that's the machine guns opening from Bellewarde. Wonder who we'll get if Freddy Mann stops a packet.”

“Brains, p'raps. 'E's takin' a commission soon. Sort o' feller that ought to. What are they makin' for?”

“Corner o' Bellewarde.”

“An' there's Bavs there. Wurtemburgers. 'Ope they enjoys it, that's all I can say.”

“ 'Ere it is,” said Beard. “This is what the missus says. Lil, she says, she's 'ad a rash, that comes o' teethin', the doctor says, and——”

“Now their bloody guns 'ave opened. That Wytschaete Willy, and there goes Percy over into Pop. Pleasant sort of a night this'll be before we're through. Who thought of this blasted raid?”

“Toler. Who d'yer think did—French or 'Aig?”

“Show on our own—that it?”

Dick Bartlett nodded. “Trust 'im for monkeying round and making trouble. Old Uncle was right in that. Remember what 'e used to say about winnin' the war. 'E was right about that. Too much nonsense Toler talks.”

“Suppose we all talked it, same as a month ago. Damned green we was.”

“Damned fools we was to come. Only thing to do now is to carry on quiet and get out quick. Mine's a left-arm Blighty.”

“Might shove yer left 'and up above the trench, but they've made that court-martial now. Been a bloomin' wounded 'ero, with a left-hand Blighty last October. Ah well, we're a bit too late. Gawd, listen to the bloomin' raid.”

The dug-out was silent for a minute.

“What's that?” asked Private Beard. “Their guns or lightnin'?”

“Both. There's the 'ell of a storm just overhead. And what with that, an' all these guns——”

“Wonder 'ow they're gettin' on? Old Uncle'll 'ave a tale to tell.”

“Plenty 'e's got already—what with South Africa and India. Prize liars ain't in it with old Uncle. Damned old scoundrel, if ever there was one. But 'e looks after Freddy Mann proper. Say that for 'im, anyway.”

“ 'Ullo, Corporal, any news?”

A streaming head appeared at the dug-out entrance.

“Nope, except the German fleet's come out at Zillebeke.”

“Raid, I mean.”

“No. They're out there somewhere. Getting it 'ot, too. Back soon I suppose. Don't mean ter say Bett's guzzlin' still?”

“Thinks it's 'is duty. That's what Bett's 'ere to do, to guzzle. 'Ow many's out?”

“Seven. They'll probably stop a packet or two between them—damned fools to go—just because they've found a bomb or two. 'Ullo, what's up? There's something 'appening.”

The others followed Corporal Garside along the flooded trench, towards where dark forms were moving quickly. The rain was white in the light of the star shells and Verey lights, and three separate streams of lead poured overhead.

“Keep down, yer bastards. They're comin' in. Somebody's bein' carried: thought as much. Wonder who it is. Anyway, 'tain't the officer, 'e's 'ere. Glad to see yer alive, sir. Thought as 'ow yer might 'ave stopped a packet. Anybody 'it, sir?”

“Yes, Brains. Got it through the leg. We just managed to get him in.” “Is he——?”

“He's a gonner, I'm afraid. Where are the stretcher bearers?”

“Look 'ere, Corporal.” Private Bettson's voice was clear above the others in the confusion, as he lumbered up the trench. “What I want to know is, when the 'ell we're going to 'ave Maconochie instead o' bully beef?”

A lifeless form was carried down the trench, past an ex-docker turned soldier, who stood protesting, up to the knees in water, tin in hand.

It is better in theory to be in company support than in the front line trench;
better to be in battalion reserve somewhere by B.H.Q. than a hundred yards nearer
the enemy; better to be in Brigade support at Ypres, than up at Railway Wood or
Hooge; better than all to be in Brigade reserve and listen to the machine guns in
the distance and watch the fireworks from Elverdinghe or Vlamertinghe. It is so in
theory, but in practice it all depends. In the front line trench the majority of the
rifle grenades, trench mortars and minnies available on the Western Front tend to be
discharged at you, and you are sometimes struck by the resemblance between yourself
and a target at the 200 yards range during musketry practice at Ash Ranges. Apart
from that, unless an attack is imminent, the chances are that you may be left alone.
If you are anywhere near B.H.Q. things tend to happen. Crumps of a heavier variety
arrive, cheered by the company in the front line, who listen to them with glee as
they sail over to disturb the R.Q.M. from his rations and his well-earned sleep.
Also, you are nearer the Colonel, the Adjutant, and the trench-mortar dump, not
altogether an unmixed advantage, and the Brigadier, when he visits the line, tends
to ask why the devil you aren't out on trench fatigues instead of hanging
about the dug-outs.

In Ypres these difficulties are accentuated, ammunition dumps being substituted for trench-mortar stores and the digging of cable trenches for trench fatigues. Furthermore, as Major Baggallay discovered, together with many both before and after, life in Ypres is a peculiar thing. Dug-outs and cellars that would be safe elsewhere are sometimes to be looked upon askance in Ypres. You shift your quarters, sometimes as the result of a hurried visit from a perturbed brigade major or staff captain, or of instinctive premonition, from north to south of the Menin Gate, or from a street near the Water Tower to the vicinity of the Prison, set your men in and settle down, your candle is suddenly extinguished or you are lifted bodily across your dug-out, and you wonder whether your reading of the riddle was correct. Finally, in brigade reserve at Vlamertinghe, these and other visitations come upon you thick and fast. There is at Vlamertinghe no lack of 8.6s and 5.9s, of brigade majors and inspecting generals, of days devoted to interior economy on an advanced scale, of rumours of imminent gas attacks and break-throughs by the Boche, of sudden orders detailing you to take a working party and report to an R.E. major or corporal at Birr Cross Roads at 10 p.m., and, if all else fails, there is always the Transport Officer to entertain when he “drops in to have one” on his way to the transport lines.

The news of the withdrawal for a week at Flammers was received with satisfaction and approval by “C” Company and the rest of the 8th Battalion of the Loyal Southshires. But within twenty-four hours Robbie and Freddy Mann,
seated within a caisson, watching two farms going up in flames, pondering the unexplained deficiencies in kuives and mess tins and endeavouring to restore their tunics to some semblance of decency for the G.O.C.'s parade, realised what they were in for, and began to pine for the relative peace of Cambridge Road. There certainly wasn't much rest for subalterns at Vlamertinghe when Townroe, Toler, the M.O., the Quartermaster and the German shells were round about. They were there for six days, during which Freddy Mann had four inspections—one of a very special order to satisfy a Labour member who looked rather like a Belgian spy that we were winning the war—and spent the remainder of the time inquiring into the whereabouts of razors, socks and mess-tins, examining rifles, taking his platoon to divisional baths, receiving what Toler was pleased to call map instruction, doing his battalion and platoon parades and taking working parties for routine jobs behind the line. But it was a merry enough time, with reasonable weather and flea-bags to sleep in at night, and the Fancies at “Pop” in the evening when he wasn't booked. With the shelling, too, they were lucky on the whole. They got on to the transport lines once or twice, but that did the Q.M. good, and as far as actual casualties, they only dropped six from “C” Company and none from his platoon. And, after all, if they were to return to the line on Thursday, there was Wednesday ahead; and on Wednesday Toler, with a sudden access of humanity or as a result of Harry's persuasion, had told Robbie and himself that they could shove off for a day's lorry jumping and get
back when they liked, and—the message was conveyed through Harry—they didn't want to see their ugly faces till they turned up on parade next morning.

“Eight weeks today,” remarked Freddy Mann, as he set his glass upon the table and leaned back in the corner of the little Watou estaminet.

“Eight ruddy weeks,” corroborated Derek Robinson. He blew into the bowl of his pipe with even more than his usual slow deliberation. “Eight ruddy weeks. What about another drink?”

“Yes. Remember passing here, eight weeks ago. Seems longer. Seems the hell of a time since then. Rather thrilled we were at the idea of going up to Wipers. Not much thrill about it now. Remember that old dame at Watten? She knew all about it. Since May we've been there—devil of a time since May. Why don't they put the 9th in and take us out a bit? Getting fed up with it, the men.”

“Don't blame 'em. Hullo, who's this?” as the door swung open and a conspicuously martial figure appeared.

“Morning. Morning all!” The newcomer was obviously of a markedly friendly disposition. “Mind if I join you? Damned hot today. Phew! Cognac, mademoiselle. Sure,”—as if with an afterthought—“I'm not butting in? Kaye of the A.S.C. I am. Quite sure I'm not butting in? Glad to see you, you know. Don't often see people in this damned place. Get out of it when I can. Rotten job, the A.S.C. Rotten place,
Belgium—dull, damned dull—that's what's the matter here. Have another with me. Don't you find it dull?”

“Well.” Robinson refilled his pipe. “We've come up from Ypres, you see. In brigade reserve and we got a day off. You wouldn't call it dull there—no, dull's not exactly quite the word.”

“Ypres. Ah yes, I know Ypres.” Lieutenant Kaye nodded with infinite wisdom. “Know Ypres well. Seen it more than once, matter o' fact. Seen it from Vlamertinghe, Brielen, places round like that. So you find it a bit on the lively side, up there at Ypres?”

“Tends to be, you know.”

“Ah well.” Lieutenant Kaye looked with a cheerful and reassuring smile upon the rather pale curly-haired subaltern on his left and the raw-boned Devonian in front of him. “Make the best of it, as I do—that's what you'll have to do. Devil of a long time yet we'll be there.”

“You think so? Is that the feeling here?”

“That's what they all say, all those that know. I was up at 2nd Army yesterday, and met a fellow there who's in the know, one of the high-up Johnnies, don't you know. He was telling me all about it. They don't worry, any of 'em. Just a matter of time it is, that's all. But it's bound to take some time.”

“What?”

“Wearing 'em out—you know our game. Killing each other off, you know, and see who can keep it up for the longest. That's our game.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Bound to be. Pays us, because we're bound to win. Fellow I saw at Cassel, he worked it out. Got it here somewhere I believe—yes, here it is.”

Lieutenant Kaye produced from the pocket of his immaculate and well-cut tunic a folded paper covered on both sides with scribbled figures.

“Yes, this is it. We were working it out after dinner. This is how he reckons it. Say the Germans have 3,000,000 effectives and we can put 6,000,000 into the field altogether, and the casualties on each side on all fronts are roughly 100,000 a month—70 per cent. of those wounded, allow 30 per cent. of those return—let's see, how did he work it out?”

Freddy Mann and Robbie glanced at each other and remained silent while the prophecies of the unknown priest of Delphi were disentangled and expounded. Lieutenant Kaye thought a moment, scribbled a few additional figures hastily and then looked up with a cheery smile.

“That's it, that's got it. Allow a million and a half to keep the front, let each side drop 1,200,000 a year, of which 800,000 return, put on 300,000 each year for those going up, take off 100,000 for general wastage and that's—no, it isn't—anyway, I remember he worked it out to something between four years and five. Didn't think much would happen before then.”

“And what happens then?”

“German front collapses and in we go. Perfectly simple; it can't go wrong. It's just a matter of time, and not getting
hurried, that's all it is. He explained it all to me—clever chap—fellow on the Staff, you know. They get all this worked out there. Nothing left to chance at G.H.Q.” He nodded solemnly, ordered another cognac and looked inquiringly at the others.

“You hadn't looked at it quite like that before?”

“Well.” The Cherub looked half amused and half perplexed. Robbie solemnly shook his head, and filled his pipe.

“No?”

“Ah well, glad I told you. Cheer you up; it's bound to, to know how it's working out. But that's why I say, you'll have a good deal more of Wipers.”

“What about you?”

“Don't worry me. Nice fat job, this job, car o' me own whenever I want it, decent pay, spot o' leave this summer—all the same to me. Let the war go on for all I care and the more of it the better. Haven't got any job to go back to—just hanging about at home. Same with this fellow I was telling you about—it doesn't worry him. Six hundred thousand he reckoned our total casualties this year—bound to take some time. Not keeping you chaps, am I?”

“No. We're just out for the day, no special programme.”

“How are you getting round?”

“Lorry jumping. Came up by Proven, and we're going back through Pop.”

“Pop. I thought of running in there meself. Got a little bit in 5 Bis, you know,” with a knowing grin. “Tell you what. Come and have a spot of lunch with me, and
we'll flip down to Pop this evening and dine and see the Fancies. You can easily shove along from there at any time. That's what we'll do—you just come along. Just along there's our mess—just along the road. Just one more and then we'll push along.”

Given the company and the freedom, there was nothing better than a day in Pop. What Blackpool is to Lancashire, or Brighton to the Metropolis, that, or something like it, was Poperinghe to the Salient in 1915. The members of the A.S.C. mess appeared as care-free as Lieutenant Kaye, and two of his fellows found after a cheerful lunch that it was possible for them to tear themselves away from their duties and accompany them on the flivver down the road from Watou, through St. Jan-ter-Biezen. In Pop itself they had tea, indulged in a little desultory shopping, dined, arranged to meet Lieutenant Kaye outside 5 Bis, within the hallowed portals of which it was not apparently thought advisable that they should enter, and to finish the evening dropped in at the Fancies, where Freddy Mann, thoughts of raids, standtos and shelling far removed, helped to cheer Margarine and Glycerine to the echo and joined manfully in the chorus of Jerry Brum. Good sort of a day, they concluded, as they finally bade goodnight outside the Town Hall and Robbie and he set out past the station on their homeward trek. A peaceful day, fine weather, and a peaceful night. There was nothing the matter with the Wipers Road on a night like
this. Just the usual traffic moving along—ambulances, a few guns, an odd working party or two, a battalion of the neighbouring division moving from the line—nothing ahead but the usual star shells and clatter of machine guns, and just a little shelling here and there. Somewhere in the region of Vlamertinghe it seemed to be, but as something usually was happening in that region of Vlamertinghe, there was nothing much in that.

“P'raps it's Goldfish Château,” remarked Robbie hopefully. “About time they had something at D.H.Q. Let's shove along. It'll probably die down soon.”

After a few minutes even this disturbance ceased, and the subalterns walked for the last mile along a quiet and deserted road to turn the somewhat forbidding corner by the mill and take the lane to the left that led towards their huts. Here for the first time they were conscious of some disturbance: figures were moving quickly in the distance, and two men, one an officer, were doubling down the lane.

“What's the matter with Harry?” asked Freddy Mann, as the tense features appeared in the darkness, lips drawn thin and white and the corners of the mouth hard set. “What's up, Harry? Anything up?”

“Go and see. They got on to us, the devils. Six direct hits. Done Malcolm in and knocked out B.G. and God knows how many in “C” Company alone. Better get along and help. 'Bout time you came. Better get along and see what they've left of your platoons. Where the hell are those ambulances? Sort of thing that would happen. You get along.”

There was nothing to the already partially trained eyes of Freddy Mann and Robbie unusual in the sight they saw by the wrecked huts one hundred yards to the left of the lane. They'd seen men bleeding to death before, an officer minus a leg, a head lying by itself in the corner of a field, figures tossing on stretchers and moaning as they rolled along the ground. It was a little unexpected, perhaps, and it seemed a curious thing to return from a peaceful countryside, peasants working in fields and children playing on the roads, to this. But, as Freddy Mann realised as he knelt to close Malcolm's eyes, it showed that it was difficult to know what would happen next at Ypres, and that the theory of the war of attrition so well expounded by Kaye was working as it should. This loss of eighty men meant 120 casualties in the last ten days of rest. Roughly, that tallied with the figures, and so long as the number was not exceeded we might expect to win the war.