Pass Guard at Ypres (7 page)

Der Colonel Ludwig von Rutter stood still as any statue upon the firestep,
listening to the stream of shells that screamed towards the west, and peering
through the darkness towards the bursts of fire upon the trenches three hundred
yards away. There was a certain tension in his manner; for some days he had spoken
even less, and delivered his orders in an even sharper voice than usual. This was to
some extent to be attributed to the strain of trench warfare. Colonel von Rutter was
doubtless beginning to feel the need for leave: since October he had been at this
game, since October he had promised from time to time first his company and then his
battalion that they should be in Ypres within three days and at the sea within a
week. Far be it from Colonel von Rutter to say that the men were ceasing to believe
it; but the fact remained that things were not going quite the way they should.
These offensives had a habit of succeeding up to a point, but never quite coming
off. October 31st—they ought to have been through that day: he had been told
as a fact since that there had been nothing at all behind the British line except
headquarters, and they had had division after division coming up, the roads behind
packed with troops and guns from Menin
back to Courtrai. Then
again, last April, Pilckem, St. Julien, Frezenberg, Hooge—they were all but
through; he had seen the towers of Ypres from the woods beyond the château,
had looked on the railway crossing from a distance of only three fields away; but
always at the last moment some straggling disordered lines would come toiling up the
slopes, or struggling through the shell-fire of the Menin Road, pressing on and on
as if every inch of those few square miles of ground was of greater value than their
very souls. And now, to crown all, that last attack in June, when they had actually
been turned out of the Hooge Château by a crowd of wild, yelling barbarians
dressed in women's skirts. Von Hügel himself had been pretty fed up
about that, and he wasn't the only one. When it comes to Duke Albrecht
himself sending Ilse, his chief-of-staff, up to Gheluvelt to ask what the devil they
were playing at.—No—Colonel von Rutter stiffened his back and pressed
his lips together—it wasn't good enough. The men's discipline
was all right still, but they were getting a bit sick of it, beginning to talk a bit
among themselves; and it wasn't the men only, or even his own reputation or
that of his battalion: there was something more in it than that. This Ypres, that
was really nothing more than a Belgian market town, was beginning to be talked of by
the British apparently as a symbol, almost as a holy place, a sort of Belgian
Verdun. Well, if that were so, the issues must be joined: if they had staked their
strength in its defence, it was the German might, the German God against the British
in the last resort. “Gott strafe . . .” Yes, and sooner
or later he would do it here. Von Rutter looked a moment from
the dank grass and wire to the quiet stars above.
There—there—somewhere in the universe of distance, riding the storm of
battle, was the God of their Fathers, whose hand was with them still. If till now He
had denied them victory, it was but that victory might be the sweeter when it came
and men better for chastening might reap it. They had striven before to win their
way down the last two miles of that tortured road and failed; but tonight they would
fight through, even if it were through Hell to the gates of Paradise:
hell—nay, rather hell should be their ally, for the fires of hell should help
them. Poison is good, but a man may choke and live; but can a man live when the
cloud that comes upon him is a cloud of fire? One last look upward and out to where
the shells burst unceasingly, and von Rutter moved to join another figure which was
busying itself beneath the parapet of the next fire bay. The younger officer, as his
Colonel approached, turned, straightened himself and gave a stiff salute.

“All well, Karl?”

“All well, Herr Colonel.”

“It is ready?”

“Yes.”

The officers looked at each other with understanding eyes.

“This time, I think.”

“Yes, I believe this time: nothing can stand against it.”

“So we thought about our gas: but still—this time.”

He leaned his arms upon the parapet facing eastward.

“Hell there.” He pointed to the bursts. “That is hell—for them. There goes a body now.” He pointed to a dark object that circled for a moment in the air. “And for ten days they have had it: there can be little left.”

“They have put fresh troops in there tonight. Kurt told me at Brigade.”

Von Rutter nodded.

“I know. New troops—those of Kitchener.” He smiled.

“The better for us, good Karl. Old men, boys from school, clerks, keepers of shops, and for them—this.” He pointed to the bottom of the trench, then stood for a moment silent.

“It is ten to three. But thirty minutes more. The men are ready?”

“Yes.”

“Your company shall win the honour, Karl. It is time—that God was with us. This time—tomorrow is the last day of July. By August we shall be there.” A sudden new light appeared two miles away. “That is Ypres burning. They are the flames of wrath. It is the funeral pyre. By sword and flame, good Karl. Our sword tonight shall be a sword of fire.”

That was Robbie. Well, anyway, thank God he was still alive. So long as Robbie was still alive there would be someone on his left, between him and the Menin Road.
That was the thing to remember tonight, that the Menin Road was on his left: it had always been on his right before, with Y Wood in between them. Y Wood was across there now, and these woods here were Zouave and Sanctuary Wood, that he had never been near before. He must keep that clear, whatever happened: and this was their support line and whatever happened they mustn't budge, not even if the companies in front, up at Hooge there, couldn't stick it. The other fellows they relieved had stuck it for ten days on end, but perhaps it hadn't been quite as bad as this. He didn't see how many people could be left alive at Hooge—even in “C” Company there'd been three people blown to bits since they got in three hours ago, and God knows how many wounded. Yes, that was Robbie. He thought that shell had got him, but there he was. Funny how cool he kept, but he was always cool like that. Perhaps it was easy to keep cool if you didn't get that feeling in your legs and knees: his own would hardly work now, when it came to climbing over sandbags. Still, he'd just get round this traverse and meet Robbie at the sentry post. There was something moving there, so Gibbs was still alive as well. They'd burst in the sap-head, which was a pity, but if they went on shelling like this they couldn't help bursting in everything in time, which he hoped wouldn't happen, as it would take a long time to build it all again and——

“Cheer-oh!”

How the devil did he manage to keep his voice so natural in this filthy row? He was just exactly the same as if he was at Aldershot.

“Just came along to see if all was O.K. here. You all right?” He was talking a bit more slowly. Well, of course, he would. But that was all.

“Yes. We're all right.”

“Lost many?”

“Three for certain. None in the last half-hour.”

Robbie nodded and paused, looking up the hill to Hooge.

“Pretty thick up—up there: it's worse than here. They've got machine guns from Hooge as well. It looks as if they're coming.”

Freddy Mann tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was sticky. He made a praiseworthy attempt to swallow some moisture that wasn't there.

“About as nasty a night as any that we've had.”

Freddy Mann swallowed again.

“Do you think—anything is up?”

“Dunno. Toler thinks there may be. And Harry's in a filthy temper—that's usually a sign of something.”

“Wonder why they shoved us in the line?”

“Give the other chaps a rest probably. Ten days of it they've had on end. Up to us, I suppose, to take the bowling. They're getting it pretty bad up there. Getting in must have been the devil of a job on a night like this. Well.” He glanced round and back at Freddy Mann. “Suppose I'd better get along and see about our rations. Think I'll go back this way,” as he clambered up into No Man's Land. “Just see if all's O.K. along the wire. Biggs seems happy enough.” He nodded towards the figure in the tumbled
sap-head. “So long. I'll be just along here—if anything should happen: it's a sticky sort of night.”

Robbie nodded casually and passed along towards the road. With him there seemed to Freddy Mann to vanish one of the few hopes of sanity that remained. Robbie seemed to take all this as natural. He was older, of course; perhaps that made the difference. For himself he'd have to stick it out, but it wasn't easy, as his head was dancing a bit, and he kept on shivering and feeling funny whenever a shell came near. What was the use of calling this “standing up to bowling”? You could stand up to bowling all right, when you had a chance, but out here, if you weren't shot through the head like Ark-wright, you were blown to bits like Ford and Graveson were last week, and all the time there were those poor swine of Tommies depending on you, so you couldn't say what you felt, and all these corpses and blood and things about, just because the Staff said they had to stick it out in front of Ypres, which everybody knew was a damned silly thing to do, with these crumps pouring down and the earth rocking—and now what the hell was up? He leaned forward over the parapet as some new devilry broke out at Hooge, accompanied by redoubled machine-gun fire, flicker and fall of starlights, and between them arches of fire that seemed to rise into the heavens and fall in lines of sparks to earth just where the front line companies must be.

“What the hell——”

“Steady, lad, now steady. Are you ready here?”

Freddy Mann turned to face his Company Commander.

“Is it an attack?”

“Think so. It'll be all right, lad. Just keep steady. Yes, there's the S.O.S. and that's our guns: just stick it. Keep 'em steady. All right?”

“Yes—but what the devil's that?”

“Dunno—damned if I know, to tell you the truth. Might be anything—new star shells or something. Been watching it for the last few minutes, matter o' fact. It's——”

He looked again, a little puzzled. He was a conscientious, rather fussy Regular soldier, well versed in his job and in military history; but his mentality, and, as it proved, his knowledge of human nature had its limits: he could not know that at that moment men were screaming, cutting their throats with bayonets and blowing their brains out, while their flesh was being gnawed and stripped from their bones by liquid fire.

Why didn't Corporal Sugger get up? What was the use of lying squealing at the bottom of a trench? Hadn't he often said that the one thing he wanted to do was to see a Hun? Hadn't he often told 'em all about exactly what he was going to do with 'em when he met 'em? This was his chance. He wouldn't have a better chance than this. Didn't he want to see them? There they were to see, coming on like grey ants, shoving along past their left towards Zouave Wood, dozens of 'em, hundreds—ants growing bigger all over the ground with some khaki chaps being
driven along in front of them. They weren't advancing in very good order, but they were coming nearer. Somehow they'd got to stop them. Whatever happened they mustn't get into the trenches, Townroe said. But the shelling didn't seem to stop them, or the machine guns: the more that fell the more it seemed came on over the crest by Hooge. The companies there hadn't stopped them: they were getting round behind them now. He could even hear the men cheering and shouting between the bursts of shell fire: first time he'd seen them in all these weeks, first time almost it really seemed to him that they were real. Why couldn't they stop and give them just a moment—only fair, after all that shelling, to give them just a breathing space. But you couldn't expect much from chaps who'd go and pour fire over people, like that fellow from Hooge said they'd done up there. This was the end, perhaps. Bit too fast, this bowling. They'd got to be stopped, Townroe said, and they kept on coming on, so—hullo he was coming for him, that fellow, making a bee-line straight at him through the wire. Well, here's for the revolver. Might get him. He hadn't practised much with his revolver, but it was the only chance—oh, damned good shot, that. That was Bamford. Always a good chap, Bamford. They seemed to be stopping a bit now at last. Didn't blame 'em, with so many hanging on the wire, and others lying on their backs and squirming about all over the place and crawling through the grass. There were no more coming, either, now. Our machine guns—that's what it was, those M.M.G. fellows and Robbie's Lewis gun. Oh, damned
good if they'd stopped them. Bit of a mess they'd made though. Look at this one fire-bay, or what used to be a fire-bay, and Beale and Holter sprawling dead across the parapet, and Price bleeding to death in that corner, and Howell groping about as if he couldn't see—just Bamford and himself left, and Sugger squealing and lying on his face. He'd be shot for cowardice most likely. Here was Harry coming. He'd fix him. Damned fool he was to carry on like that. You didn't stop the Hun by lying at the bottom of a trench, shrieking and calling out for God. Fool he'd look, when he got up again and he found that while he'd been lying there they'd stopped the Hun. Yes, here come the shells again. They wouldn't be shelling those trenches if they hadn't known the attack had failed. Good bit of work, that, to have stopped the Hun. Never mind the shelling. They'd stopped——

An hour to go. Glad he'd got back from the dressing station in time after that crack on the head in the trench yesterday morning. Hadn't known much about yesterday, and what he had was apparently all wrong. It wasn't at them at all that they were going, but at those fellows on the left. They'd had a pretty thin time, his crowd, up in the air all day and fired at from front and side and rear. One way of sleeping through it, anyway, to get knocked out by a bit of shell and be for six hours unconscious in a dug-out. Getting back to Sanctuary Wood last night
was about the first thing he remembered. Now they were there, why the devil did they leave it? Damned silly idea, attacking Hooge by daylight. Putting the whole Brigade in, were they? Jolly few there'd be left this time tomorrow. Silly to leave a place like this. Not much to look at, with half the trees down and shells crashing into it every few minutes, but it was better than the open; they could move about here, and a fly couldn't move out there without being pipped. No dog's chance of getting across the open this afternoon, any more than those other poor swine had of getting across the Menin Road upon their left. Harry had practically said so, and it was easy to guess what Townroe thought. Chucking away men like this, good chaps all of them, fellows he'd got to know well, fellows like Beale and Price and Holter. Hadn't got Robbie, though, or Bamford—glad of that, as he glanced at Bamford, looming heavily by his side and putting a stray bullet away in his pouch. One hour—he was still feeling sick and dizzy, and suddenly Bamford's figure seemed to dance and disappear, and in place of it the bullet grew ever larger and larger, till at last it filled the trench before him, a gigantic dark pointed mass spread across the scarred earth and trees, with a number which he could not quite decipher in blood and figures round the base. He felt for his “cold mutton ticket”—second Lieutenant Frederick Drydale Mann, No. 45231. Good luck to it! One hour to go.