"I'm sorry; the S.M. has told me off once already for having too many men on my party. He went off the deep end* about it and said I'd get him into trouble. I can't let you stay."
One after another the fatigue parties were called out and I fell in with my own, the last of all and about eighty strong. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge.
The Sergeant-Major blew his whistle and shouted, "Move off!" and one by one the N.C.O.'s gave the words of command:
"Party—Tshn! Into File—Right Turn! By the Right—Quick March!"
As we passed out of the camp each of us drew a shovel or a pick from a great heap of tools near the entrance.
We got on to the road and formed fours, and at last began the longed-for march which would restore our circulation and warm our frozen feet.
The snow was still falling heavily and the wind blew it into our faces. We bowed our heads and pulled our caps down over our eyes. Our feet began to glow but our ears became painfully cold instead. We held our hands over them and as our ears grew warm our fingers became numb and frozen, so that we put our hands back into our pockets (although it was against regulations) and tried to think of something else.
Gradually, however, I became warm in every member and was filled with a sense of physical comfort that released my thoughts from immediate, material things. I thought of home and made plans for the future. I had a long, stubbornly contested argument with an imaginary opponent about the issues of the war. And then physical discomfort made itself felt again, all my free and wandering thoughts were gathered in by a wide-flung net and roughly thrown into a narrow dungeon.
I was growing unpleasantly hot and I longed to get rid of my heavy, sodden great-coat. The strap of my haversack was making my shoulder ache. I became peevish and fretful once more.
We swung along the road with rapid strides. Some of the feebler marchers showed signs of weariness and began to grumble at our speed. There was an ironical shout of "Double up in front," whereupon the front fours slowed down a little.
The wind increased in power and the snow flew past us in horizontal lines obscuring the Flemish landscape. We marched on in silence for an hour or more until suddenly the front fours halted and all the others thronged up against them. We had reached our destination.
There was a broad-gauge railway. On one side of it huge stacks of sleepers stretched away in long rows that were soon lost to sight in the wintry atmosphere. On the other side was a barbed wire fence. Beyond it lay flat fields on which the snow had settled evenly. In one of the fields was the dim form of a farm-building, barely visible through the rush and turmoil of dancing snowflakes.
A Sergeant of the Royal Engineers came up and told us what our work would be. We were to carry all the sleepers across the line and stack them in four rows on the far side of the fence.
"Is it a task job?" we asked.
The Sergeant did not know.
"What did they make us bring our shovels for?"
A voice, mocking such a naïve questioner, answered:
"Don't yer know the army be now?"
We broke down a section of the fence. Two men were assigned to each stack. They loaded each sleeper on to the shoulders of a couple of men who carried it across the railway lines into the field, where it would be received and stacked by other men.
Hour by hour we trudged to and fro in pairs, bearing our wet and heavy loads. We lost consciousness of everything except driving snow, squelching mud, aching backs and sore shoulders. When one shoulder became so sore that mere contact with our load was intensely painful, we changed over to the other, until that too became bruised, and then we would change back again. And so on, hour by hour.
Our legs seemed as heavy as lead and yet they seemed to move of their own accord without any effort of the will. Our minds became blurred and numb—a numbness that was broken from time to time by a sharp stab of pain whenever a sleeper was placed across our shoulders.
"For Christ's sake, let's 'ave a blow," said my partner suddenly.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter-past ten—nearly two hours more till lunch!
We observed that only a small number of men were working, and my partner blurted out:
"I ain't goin' ter do more'n me share. There's a lot o' fellers swingin' the lead be'ind them stacks. I'm goin' ter 'ave a bit of a rest, I'm bloody well done up."
We both went behind a stack and found that a crowd of men had gone there before us. One of them shouted cheerfully: "Here come two more leadswingers!"* We leaned against the wood and rested, but a few minutes had hardly passed when a Corporal appeared and shouted peremptorily: "Come on out o' that—get on wi' yer job an' put a jerk in it." We struggled reluctantly back to our work.
The wearisome, monotonous trudge began again. As the first stacks disappeared the journey became longer and longer. I again looked at my watch—it was twenty to eleven. The quarter-past ten seemed several hours ago! The way the time dragged drove us to despair. But there was no escape—we had to live through every minute of this dismal day.
My partner and I worked on in silence. Gradually the men slackened their pace and tried to miss their turn. We did the same. Others, who were behind us, followed suit, refusing to do more than their share. Our progress became slower and slower until at length it stopped altogether. There was a long straggling queue in front of the half-demolished stack. The first pair of men refused to take the sleeper held in readiness for them, protesting that there were others who ought to have gone before, and the others refused to work until the first two had taken their turn. A deadlock ensued and then a Sergeant came up with "What's the matter now? This ain't a bleed'n' picnic! Don't yer know there's a war on? Yer like a lot o' school kids. Go an' get a bloody move on!"
A chorus of voices asserted that some people couldn't play the game and were swinging the lead and dodging their turn. Thereupon the Sergeant formed us up into two ranks and ordered us to proceed with the work. This interruption made at least a portion of our time pass more quickly. Then we continued our wearisome tramp. An age seemed to pass. I looked at my watch, but it was only twenty-three minutes after eleven. To and fro we went with bruised shoulders, aching backs and numbed intelligence. I fell into a kind of semi-conscious state. Suddenly the whistle blew for lunch. How quickly the last twenty-seven minutes seemed to have passed!
It was good to have an hour's rest before us. As for the afternoon, well, there was no need to think about it, for it was still a long way off. Besides, somehow or other, the afternoons always seemed to pass more quickly than the mornings. Moreover, we had paraded an hour earlier than usual, so perhaps we would also stop work an hour earlier.
"'Urry up an' dror yer tea," our Sergeant shouted. "Yer only gettin' 'alf an hour fur yer dinner—we've got ter git the job done ter-day."
"Why didn' yer tell us it was a task job? Gorblimy—we ain't done 'alf of it! We won't get 'ome afore five or six o'clock ter-night."
"I can't 'elp it, 'tain't my fault. Yer've got ter git it done, them's me orders!"
There was vociferous grumbling and swearing that continued while we formed a queue and filed past a man who poured tea in our mugs from three large dixies.
We sat down by the stacks wherever we could find shelter from the wind. We were still hot and perspiring after our morning's labours. We ate our rations in silence, for the resentful shouting had died down and had given way to a sullen quiet.
When we had finished our meal we stared vacantly at the snowflakes that were blown over the top of the stack above our heads and whirled round and round in front of our eyes. Gradually we began to feel the cold again. Many of us got up and walked about, for it was nipping our feet. I was stiff in every limb and full of bitter thoughts. I hoped the half-hour would be over soon.
At length the Sergeant blew the whistle and shouted:
"Fall in! Yer'd better put a jerk in it—yer won't go till yer've finished. It's a task job. Yer didn't shift 'alf the sleepers this mornin'—there's another couple o' thousand left, so get a bloody move on!"
The grumbling was renewed in the ranks.
"It's no good yer bloody well grousin'. The work's got ter be done. Carry on!"
Our tedious round began again. The distance from the old stacks to the new increased steadily. We tramped through mud and slush in wind and snow, hour by hour.
"I'm goin' ter 'ave a rest—I've 'ad enough o' this," said my partner. I felt annoyed, for although I was stiff and tired and sore, I had again relapsed into that state of dulled sensibility in which my limbs seemed to move automatically and time to have no existence at all. Although I was aware of pain I was yet indifferent to it. And now my partner was going to drag me back to full consciousness. I gave way to his wish and we leaned against a stack. We stayed there with several others until we were discovered by a Corporal who chased us out and abused us roundly.
We went on with our work. The brief rest had only done harm, for the first sleeper that was subsequently laid on to my shoulders produced such a pang that I had to close my eyes for a moment. Nor could I set my stiff limbs in motion without difficulty. I silently cursed my partner.
The dreary hours dragged on. I tried hard to fall back into my former state of blurred consciousness, but the very attempt itself frustrated the effort. I was full of growing resentment against my partner. My dormant anger was aroused, it had found an object and, against all reason and fairness, demanded vengeance. I pretended to stumble and jerked the sleeper so as to hurt his bruised shoulder.
"'Ere, what yer doin' of?" he shouted, in great pain. "Christ Almighty—be a bit careful!"
In a moment I regretted what I had done and said, "Sorry, I stumbled over something—I hope I didn't hurt you!" I felt ashamed and all my resentment vanished. Thereupon I became too oppressed in spirit even to look at my watch.
We had been splashing and squelching to and fro, I did not know how long, when an officer arrived. He stood still for a moment and watched us work, and then he said:
"The job's got to be done this afternoon, my lads, but I'll try to get you a day off to-morrow. Who's in charge of the party?"
We pointed to Sergeant Hyndman. He was sitting in an improvised shelter in front of a fire, sipping hot tea. He had spent the greater part of the day there and had not observed the arrival of the officer, who was walking slowly towards him. Suddenly he jumped up and there was an exchange of words which we could not hear, although we tried hard to do so. The Sergeant came over to us, looking rather disconcerted, so we were able to guess the nature of the conversation.
We felt greatly encouraged and worked with renewed vigour. The stacks vanished one by one. Time appeared to slip by with gathering speed. A kind of common rhythm seemed to pervade our movements as we plodded to and fro with mechanical regularity.
The officer went up to the stacks from which we were removing the sleepers and made a mental calculation. "Only four hundred sleepers left now, boys—that's five apiece or ten to each pair. You'll soon be finished, and I've ordered lorries to take you home!"
His kindness did us good and we worked with a kind of grim determination. My partner was coming to the end of his strength. His knees were bent and from time to time he staggered, jerking the sleeper so as to make me wince with pain. But he kept up obstinately. We counted the sleepers as we received them—one, two, three and so on. This occupied our minds and the time passed all the more quickly. Eight ... nine ... ten! At last our work was done! "Thank God," said my partner with deep conviction. We rested against one of the newly erected stacks, but it was not long before Sergeant Hyndman came striding up and addressed us angrily. He had evidently been snubbed by the officer and was giving relief to his mortification by bullying us.
"What yer doin' there? Swingin' it on yer mates, are yer? Call yerselves sportsmen, do yer? Get back an' bloody well do yer bit!"
"We've done our share—there were four hundred sleepers left, which makes ten journeys for each pair. If it doesn't work out it's because some of the others have been swinging the lead behind the stacks. We've carried our ten and aren't going to do any more."
"Why d'yer let 'em swing it on yer? It's yer own bleed'n' fault! D'yer think I'm goin' ter stand over yer all day? Some o' you blokes is as 'elpless as a lot o' kids—yer want a wet nurse to look arter yer!"
"That's what you're there for, to look after us!"
"Don't bloody well tell me what I'm there for! I know me job an' don't want no tellin'. Get stuck into it an' don't let me 'ave any o' yer bloody lip, else yer'll be up fur orderly room—I shan't give yer another warnin'!"
Seeing that argument was useless, we walked away and crossed the railway lines. My partner growled: "I 'ope I meet 'im in civvy life—I'll give 'im somethin' ter think about—I've seen better things'n what 'e is crorlin' about in cheese!"
There were fifty or sixty sleepers left. We dawdled on our way back, hoping that there would be enough men in front of us to clear the lot. The officer shouted: "Come along, my lads, sharp's the word and quick's the action! You'll be finished in a few minutes."
The khaki-clad flock straggled forward. The remaining sleepers were loaded on to our shoulders—my partner and I received the last one. As we carried it off a cheer was raised by the other men.
At last the whistle blew and we fell in. The sky was still covered with dark, heavy clouds, but the snow had ceased to fall and the wind had dropped. We could see the dreary landscape a little better now. The railway lines curved away until, in the far distance, they ran into a ghostly procession of tall, slim poplars that filed across the dim horizon and marked the passage of a main road. On one side of the lines long rows of dark squares in the snow showed where the sleepers had lain before we moved them. A brown stretch of churned and trodden mud and water connected them with the new stacks that extended in four rows along the other side of the lines. We had shifted five thousand eight hundred sleepers in all. Around us were level, snow-covered fields unrelieved by anything except an occasional tree and the farm. It consisted of three buildings, a house and two big barns, forming three sides of a square. The cottage had a low, thatched roof, dirty, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. In the middle of the square was a huge muck heap, covered with patches of melting snow. A pig was pushing its snout into it here and there and grunting from time to time. There was no other sign of life anywhere. A dreary, depressing landscape!
"Remember Belgium!" said one of the men in the ranks derisively.
"We won't forget it in a hurry!"
"Fritz can have it for all I care!"
"He's welcome to it—I don't want it, I want to get back to Blighty!"
We were called to attention. The promised lorries were waiting for us—three lorries for eighty men. We marched towards them in file, but as we got nearer to them, the men broke rank and everybody rushed wildly to get in first so as to secure any available boxes or petrol-tins that might serve as seats. A noisy, turbulent throng clustered round each lorry. We scrambled in, pushing, hustling, and swearing. We were soon so crowded together that there seemed to be no room for any more, but nevertheless more men climbed up and forced an entrance. We formed a compact mass and our picks and shovels were heaped on the floor in everybody's way.
The lorries started with a lurch so that we all staggered backwards. They raced along, and bumped, and swayed from side to side. The roof of the lorry in which I stood was so low that I had to keep my head bent forward all the time. The fumes from the exhaust made our eyes water and smart.
We reached camp after about half an hour's ride. We jumped out and lined up on the road. Sergeant Hyndman perceived the Commanding Officer strolling about amongst the tents and said to us in an awe-stricken voice:
"Smarten up a bit, for Christ's sake—there's the Captin walkin' about—don't make no bloomers when yer dismissin' else yer'll get extra shovel-drill an' get me into trouble in the bargin. Mind yer salute prop'ly.... Party—Tshn! Inter File, Right Turn! Quick March!"
We wheeled into the camp holding our picks and shovels at the trail. Our Commanding Officer stood still and watched us. As we passed him the Sergeant yelled out with unaccustomed sharpness: "Eyes—Right!" We all turned our heads smartly to the right and he saluted with strained, affected precision. The Captain touched the peak of his cap in a perfunctory manner. He hardly seemed to be looking at us at all, but suddenly he spotted a man who was not holding his shovel perfectly horizontally and thundered:
"Hold your shovel properly, that man there!"
The man was disconcerted for a moment but soon re-adjusted his shovel to the satisfaction of his superior. The ground was so muddy and uneven that it was sometimes impossible to keep the exact military formation. Without having noticed it, I was a little more than the regulation distance from the man in front of me.
"Close in there, you with the glasses," bawled the Captain in a resentful voice, as though my transgression were intended as a personal insult. But his anger was diverted by another man and he shouted with gathering fury:
"That tall man over there—hold your pick properly. Not like that, damn it ... hold it at the point of balance—no, no, no, not like that ... here, Sergeant, take that man's name and number and give it to the Corporal of the Police. He'll do half an hour's extra shovel-drill this evening."
We halted. The Sergeant made a note of the offender's name and then said to us in an awestruck whisper: "Now mind yer dismiss prop'ly for Christ's sake!"
We faced to the front and on the command "Dismiss!" we all turned to the right, raised our picks and shovels and transferred them from our right hands to our left, touched the peaks of our caps with our right hands, turning the palms outwards, paused a moment and then broke away.
"Fall in, fall in—very bad, very bad, absolutely disgraceful!" bawled our infuriated C.O. "If you don't do it correctly this time, you'll get an hour's extra drill every day for a week! Now dismiss them again, Sergeant!"
The prospect of extra drill filled us with dismay. Sore shouldered, stiff, and aching in every limb, oppressed and wearied in mind and body, we only had one intense desire—to get away, to hide somewhere, to enjoy at least a brief spell of warmth and comfort.
The Sergeant gave the command, and we dismissed a second time. We went through the absurd performance with anxious punctiliousness, but three men, either through fear, weariness or carelessness, made some slight mistakes and their names were taken for extra drill.
As soon as the men were off the parade ground there was a wild stampede in the direction of the cook-house.
The scramble became a mad hustle. The men raced along the duckboards or splashed through the mud in a frantic attempt to get served first, pulling their mess-tins and plates out of their haversacks as they ran.
It was growing dark and a few snowflakes were floating about in the air. The sky was a murky leaden colour.
As I stood waiting in the dinner queue I had an imaginary fight with our Commanding Officer. I knocked him down and gloated over him as he lay sprawling in the mud with my hand savagely clutching his throat. Our pent up feelings often found relief in vindictive dreams.
The queue stretched along the duckboards and in between the tents like a dingy snake in the gathering gloom. It was rapidly growing in length as more and more men came hurrying up.
But the front of the cook-house was still closed. The men grew impatient and banged their plates and tins. There were shouts of "Get a move on." Fretful, smouldering impatience increased until it flared up in anger. "Get a bloody move on—we want somethin' ter eat after a 'ard day's work!... We've got a fine bloody lot o' cooks, keepin' us waitin' in the bloody cold—get a move on, for Christ's sake!"
The shout was taken up all along the line—"Get a bloody move on"—and tins and plates were banged until the uproar was deafening. It gradually died down again, although curses and resentful remarks were still frequent.
"'Tain't worth eatin' when yer do get it!"
"Bleed'n' stew, I s'pose, 'nough ter make yer go queer!"
"I wouldn't feed me dog on the stuff they give yer in the army—I wouldn't 'ave the cheek ter orfer it to 'im."
"Come on ... put a jerk in it"—the cry was taken up again. There was hooting and booing and banging of plates until pandemonium reigned once more.
Suddenly the shutter in front of the cook-house was pushed up and one of the cooks appeared in the opening. The booing changed into loud, ironical cheers:
"What yer bin doin' all day? Swingin' the lead?"
A squeaky voice retorted: "I've bin up since four in the mornin' workin' a bloody sight 'arder 'n what you 'ave. Yer never satisfied, yer bleed'n' lot o'...." The rest was drowned in a storm of derisive shouts.
Then the men in the queue took up the argument again.
"Yer too slow—yer could'n catch the measles!"
"You come an' do my job an' see 'ow yer like it!"
"Do your job! No bloody fear, why, 'tain't a man's job at all, it's only old women what goes inter the cook-'ouse."
"Go on, get a move on—don't stand there talkin'!"
Another cook appeared. He dipped his ladle into a receptacle behind the till and emptied into the first man's plate. The next man held out his plate, and then the next. The cumbrous serpent moved forward inch by inch while a counter movement began of men straggling back through the slush, holding up tins or plates of steaming stew.
Two candles were burning inside my tent. The men were sitting on their kits. The noisy manner in which they ate was irritating beyond measure.
After the meal I went over to the tent of a friend. He was sitting by a flickering candle in moody silence. I asked him to come with me to the village. He put on his great-coat and we walked along the duckboards on to the road. It was intensely dark and we were conscious of the silent fall of snow.
"What sort of a day did you have?" I asked.
"Undiluted misery. We marched to the quarry and when we got there we found there was nothing to do, because the train hadn't turned up. So we waited in the wind and snow, just walking up and down, stamping with our feet and trying to get warm. Lieutenant Rowlatt was in charge of us. He wouldn't let us leave the quarry or go into an estaminet. And he only gave us half an hour for dinner. Of course he spent most of the time in an estaminet himself, eating eggs and chips and flirting with the girl ... I couldn't keep warm and there was no shelter anywhere. It was like doing an eight-hour guard."
All the windows in the streets of the village were shuttered, but the light shone through cracks and chinks—a promise of warmth within that cheered us a little.
We entered an estaminet. It was crowded. Soldiers were standing round the walls waiting for vacant seats. We went to another place, but that too was crowded. Indeed, they were all crowded. Nevertheless, it was better to stand in the warmth than to walk about stiff-limbed in the slush and falling snow. We went into the next estaminet we came to. We entered the main room. An oil lamp was hanging from the ceiling. In the middle there was a long table and soldiers were seated round it, squeezed tightly together, eating eggs and chips and drinking wine or coffee. We leaned up against the wall with a number of others and waited our turn. The air was hot and moist and smelt of stale tobacco, burning fat, and steaming clothes. There was a glowing stove at one end of the room. It looked like a red-hot spherical urn on a low black pedestal. A big bowl of liquid fat was seething on the fire. A woman with flaming cheeks was throwing handfuls of sliced potatoes into it while she held a saucepan in which a number of eggs were spluttering. The heat was becoming intolerable and we edged away from the stove. We waited patiently. More and more men came in until there was no standing room left. The conversation was boisterous and vulgar, much of it at the expense of the woman, who laughed frequently and pretended to feel shocked and called the soldiers "Naughty boyss." A few men rose from the table from time to time and at last our turn came, so that we were able to sit down. We ordered eggs and chips and vin blanc, but had to wait a long time before we got them. I rested my head on my hand and struggled hard with sleep. At last the woman brought us the things we had ordered and we ate and drank in silence. We would have been glad to sit and doze in this warm place in spite of the smell and noise, but when we had finished we felt obliged to get up and make room for others.
We stepped out into the darkness. The snow had turned into rain that fell in a steady drizzle. I was so tired that I had no desire left except to get back to my tent.
"I wonder how much longer this is going to last?" I said to my friend.
"I've given up hoping. The war's a deadlock that may continue for years. All I look forward to now is the spring and the warm weather. And perhaps we shall get leave some day."
"We've only been out here six weeks—we won't get leave for another eight or nine months."
"It's something to think about and look forward to, anyhow."
We said good-night to each other and retired to our tents. Most of the men were already in bed. They were smoking their cigarettes as they lay stretched out on the floor. One of them was reading a newspaper by candlelight. I wrapped myself up in my blankets and wedged myself tightly in between my two neighbours. Although I was wearied out, I felt compelled to glance at a paper. There might perhaps be some hint of peace, some little glimmer of hope to go to sleep with and dream about. I took up my copy of the Times which I received irregularly. I began to read the leading article but was so irritated by its unctuous hypocrisy that I turned the page over and scanned the headlines. Suddenly a big drop of water splashed on to it. I became aware of the rain outside, swishing down upon the canvas, and, looking up, I saw a glistening patch of moisture collect above my head. Another heavy drop descended, I stretched out my arm and pushing my fist against the wet patch drew it down the canvas as far as the brailing. But the moisture continued to gather, and soon it was dripping in many places. My kit-bag, standing upright next to me, was getting wet, so I placed the Times over it and let the water trickle off towards the ditch. Then a man shouted from the other side of the tent:
"It's coming through like anything, my whole pillow's sopping wet."
It was more than he could bear. Each little discomfort taken separately would have been altogether negligible. But when petty discomforts accumulate there comes a time when one more, however small it be, has the effect of a sudden infliction. He ground his teeth with fury at those pattering drops of water, but the realization of impotence seemed to descend upon him with such power that he lay back and closed his eyes, a prey to violent mental agitation. Then he uttered a foul oath, blew out his candle, pulled the blanket over his head and tried to go to sleep. I heard one of the other men laugh and say good-humouredly, "'E's gettin' on—'e'll soon be swearin' wi' the best of us."
The man referred to was rather refined and had resisted the habit of swearing far longer than any of us. I was amused, and my own equanimity, which had been on the verge of collapse, was restored by this incident.
I was conscious of irresistible weariness and called out with a yawn: "Good night all," and the answer came "Good-night!" Then I heard someone singing ironically: "When you come to the end of a perfect day." I began to feel warm and was filled with a sense of intense comfort. I could hear the water dripping on to my coat, but I had become indifferent to it. My limbs were so tired that to rest them was an exquisite luxury. And then sleep came with a sudden, overwhelming rush.
We felt refreshed and yet indolent when we heard the steps of the Police Corporal splashing through the mud at half-past five the next morning. He banged the tent and shouted: "Reveillé—breakfast at six, parade at six-thirty." We enjoyed a few minutes in bed. I ran my fingers through my hair and found that it was soaked. My pillow—a shirt stuffed with spare clothing—was wet also, but the rain was no longer beating down on the canvas. The air inside the tent was pervaded by a foul, acrid stench. I threw the flap aside and looked out. The vast expanse of steely blue was dotted with glittering stars and on the eastern horizon it merged into a faint pallor. The air was deliciously fresh. We got up one by one, yawning, groaning and grumbling, and dressed and went out to wash.
As I stood in the breakfast queue I saw that the east was shot with a delicate rose colour. The purity of the dawn seemed extraordinarily beautiful compared with the sordid dinginess of the mud and khaki that were always with us.
We paraded, but at first the parade did not seem so tedious as usual. I was in the rearmost rank, standing next to a friend, Private Cowan, and we were able to converse in whispers. He remarked that the morning was like a "symphony in blue and gold." Even the glistening mud, usually so hideous, was flecked with luminous patches. But my feet were becoming numb and cold again. I felt that the pain they were giving me was about to deprive me of all pleasure in the rising sun to which I had been looking forward ever since reveillé. I fought against it, but it was stronger than I. I became angry and trod the mud in order to get warm. I gave up the attempt and waited impatiently for the end of the parade. When the sun's rim cut the horizon and sent a shaft of light across the land, it merely irritated me.
Three lorries arrived, our party was called out, we left the parade ground and scrambled into them. They quickly bore us to the place where we had worked the day before.
The sun was shining brightly. The long rows of stacked sleepers stretched out before us. We wondered what our work would be. Someone suggested we would have to restack the sleepers in their former places and we did not consider the suggestion absurd.
Our Sergeant had gone to get instructions. He returned and told us a mistake had been made the day before. We nearly groaned with apprehension. He leered at us and did not, for a moment, say what the mistake had been. Then he told us:
"It's all right, me lads. I was only pullin' yer legs a bit. Yer needn't get the wind up, yer 'aven't got ter put 'em back. This is what 'as 'appened. Yer was supposed ter spend two days on the job an' yesterday yer did two days' work in one. I see the officer about it an' 'e says yer worked bloody fine an' says 'e won't 'ave yer workin' ter day although there's plenty o' other things ter do. 'E says yer ter go back ter camp an' 'ave a good rest. 'E ain't 'alf a toff, I tell yer."
This announcement was followed by loud cheers. We scrambled back into the lorries. Everyone was jubilant at the prospect of having a holiday, and there was shouting and singing as the lorries sped along. We reached the camp and jumped out. We were dismayed at seeing our Commanding Officer walking about and conversing with the Sergeant-Major.
As we marched into the camp the C.O. said to our Sergeant: "Where've these men come from?" The Sergeant explained. "They've got the day off, have they? Kit inspection at ten o'clock!"
Our hearts sank and several of the men muttered something between their teeth. Our Sergeant, however, screwed up a little courage for once and explained that we had worked exceptionally hard the day before and that the officer in charge had promised us a holiday. The S.M. intervened in the discussion and pleaded on our behalf. At last the C.O., after walking up and down impatiently, said:
"Very well, we'll drop the inspection—they'll have to go to the baths though!"
We were elated beyond measure and when we were dismissed we saluted with all the smartness of which we were capable in order to please the Captain, and walked off the parade ground in the strictest regulation manner. Once they were off the parade ground the men rushed towards their tents, hallooing like schoolboys.
The baths were not unwelcome, although to stand in a tub under a thin drip of hot water in front of a broken window through which a cold gust of wind came and whistled round our shoulders, was no pleasure. But the ordeal was quickly over and before eleven o'clock in the morning most of us were free to do as we pleased. The greater part of the day was still before us and the morrow was a long way off.
There was much bustling and shouting and singing. It was easy to please us for pleasure was such a rarity. I was scheming how to make the most of this precious holiday. I decided to go for a solitary walk. I left the camp and strolled up a hill from where I could get a fine view of the surrounding country.
I gazed in an eastward direction. All the snow had melted, the fields, the bare trees and hedges, were steeped in warm sunlight. In the distance there was a gentle slope crowned by a long line of poplars.
Beyond the poplars, about eight miles away, there was something I did not see, although I knew it was there—a stupid, terrible, and uncouth monster that stretched in a zig-zag winding course from the North Sea to the Alps. It was strangely silent at that hour, but I was fascinated by it and thought about it harder and harder, in spite of myself. I became increasingly conscious of it and it grew upon me until it darkened everything and seemed to crush me beneath its intolerable weight.
If only the end would come! And, until it does come, give me hard work so that my own thoughts cannot oppress me and I may forget all except sore shoulders and aching limbs!
The light-railway engine pulled the trucks slowly along by winding circuitous routes. It was a warm, sunny evening. Everything was green and peaceful. The farms and cottages bore no signs of war. But soon we saw a number of shell-holes grouped round cross-roads, and gradually, as we proceeded, the fields came to be pitted more and more thickly. We skirted a large village. It was deserted. The roof of the church had three black holes. All the houses were damaged and we could see the splintered rafters standing out darkly against the sky.
We passed by camouflaged shell dumps and guns of big calibre, camouflaged and concealed amongst trees and bushes, so that often the muzzle alone was visible. Shell-holes were dotted everywhere. Many of the trees were scarred and their branches wrenched away.
We steamed into the terminal siding. Some distance in front of us was a row of poplars, regular except for the gaps where branch or trunk had been shattered. To the right was a patched-up road with several ruined cottages on either side. To the left of the poplars was a wood in which a large white château was half concealed. It looked very dreary with its black, gaping windows. To our right was a big farmhouse. Most of the tiles had been blown from the roof, showing the bare rafters. The door was in splinters, and the walls were riddled. A little lane wound round the farm in a loop and then lost itself in the wood.
Behind us was a hedge and a group of trees amongst which a gun was hidden.
There was no sound of firing. No birds were singing, although it was spring. All was quiet except for the frogs that uttered raucous musical croaks in a pond near by and puffed out the bladders at the corners of their mouths, so as to produce long-drawn shrill vibrations.
We shovelled the stones out of the trucks. Several of the men expressed disappointment at the fact that there was no "excitement."
Soon after nightfall desultory firing broke out some distance off. Then a gun began to fire a long way behind us. The shells passing high overhead made a faint rustling noise, as though they were travelling along in leisurely fashion.
Suddenly all the batteries in the entire neighbourhood joined in. The uproar was like that of innumerable thunderstorms crashing together. The guns bellowed and roared and pounded and deep reverberations filled the night. From behind us there came flashes so dazzling that we could not bear to look at them, and great blasts of air and thunder-claps that seemed to strike our ears with colossal hammers and make them drone intolerably. Thunder-clap followed thunder-clap, long jets of white flame pierced the darkness, and now and again the very air seemed to kindle, and brilliant sheets and shreds of flame blazed and crackled round us. Above there was a noise as though thousands of devilish creatures were rushing along, helter-skelter, with inconceivable rapidity, howling, shrieking, screaming, wailing, laughing, exulting, whistling and gibbering.
The shells burst over and beyond the belt of trees in front of us. Vivid, multicoloured scintillations and innumerable glittering stars flashed out and thronged the sky. At times the shells fell so thickly that a white flame of dazzling brilliancy would dart writhing along the tree-tops with lightning speed. The booming of the guns and the terrible screeching of the shells continued unabated. We were blinded, deafened, and all our senses were confused.
At last the tumult began to die down. I looked round, curious to see the effect on the other men. Frequent flashes still lit up every detail of our surroundings.
Everyone had stopped working. Most of us were gazing ahead, thoroughly scared. Standing next to me was someone who said he had always wanted to see a bombardment and now he was satisfied. He was not at all frightened, being one of the few who realized that we had been in no danger. By the light of the gun-flashes I saw, a few yards in front of me, one of our men, a young nervous fellow, stretched out at full length, trembling, and sobbing hysterically and clutching at the grass with hands that opened and closed in mad spasms. Another man was cowering down by one of the trucks, his face buried in his arms.
Our Sergeant approached. He was quite unafraid and had a rather bored look on his face. Two men were walking beside him. One of them, a Corporal, who a few hours before had complained that we were having no excitement, was saying in a strained, halting voice, that he felt very unwell, that he had hurt his knee, and would like to go back to camp. The other, a small, broad-shouldered, full-chested, squat individual, with a flat nose and a brutal face—the champion light-weight boxer of our unit—implored the Sergeant in whining tones to let him go home. The Sergeant, however, told him to shut up and go on with his work.
Gradually the firing became less and less frequent, until finally it died down altogether. Soon the big yellow disc of the moon rose above the tree-tops and all was silent except for the croaking of the frogs.
We finished emptying the trucks and then sat down inside them. The engine came along, rattling and puffing. It was coupled to the train, and the return journey began.
The landscape was plainly visible in the light of the rising moon. Shell-holes, torn trees, and ruined houses decreased in number. We passed a straw-thatched cottage nestling amid a group of bushes and poplars. A light shone from the window, a dog barked. A bat flitted silently past. It seemed as though the uproar of the cannonade had been a dream.
The engine stopped at the siding. We jumped out of the trucks and retired into our tents. Not a word was spoken by anyone.
The following day we again received orders to proceed to the terminal siding by the light railway.
In the morning our champion boxer had reported sick in anticipation. He looked convincingly pale and complained of the usual "pains all over." The Medical Officer gave him "light duty" and he spent the day in camp, picking up matches, bits of paper, and miscellaneous rubbish.
It seemed strange that the ruined houses, the belt of poplars, the damaged farm, and the wood with the white château were still standing there so peacefully after the bombardment of the previous night. The frogs, charming creatures, were still croaking merrily.
When we had unloaded the trucks we sat down in the grass and awaited the return of the engine.
The trees were dim in the warm haze. I gazed at the white château. It fascinated me, for some inexplicable reason, and I felt an impulse to go and explore it. I was seized by a mood such as I had rarely felt since childhood, when almost every lonely and desolate building filled me with a sense of awe and mystery, as though it were the home of ghosts or fairies or witches. I was conscious of the absurdity of the emotion, but I surrendered to it and even enjoyed its strangeness.
There was no sound of firing.
I obeyed the impulse and strolled down the little winding lane. It led through a gap in the green hedge that surrounded the wood. Knowing that the enchantment of the château would vanish as soon as I entered it, I dawdled on the way so as to prolong my pleasure. Suddenly the bushes in front of me caught fire and a bright sheet of flame shot upward and almost simultaneously there was a sharp report. I was so thrilled by the mysterious attraction of the château that I barely noticed the event. As I passed a small ruined cottage, which I had not observed before, for it was hidden amongst the trees, there was a short whizz on a high note, and then a loud crash. Smoke issued from the windows and the riddled roof, and bits of wood and débris hurtled through the air. Then there was a loud wailing noise followed by a terrific detonation. The château was blotted from view by a dense mass of black smoke that rose out of the ground in front of me. The spell was broken. I hesitated whether to go on or not, when I became aware of a voice behind me. I looked round and saw one of our Corporals shouting and gesticulating. I turned back and rejoined the others, though not before I had been called a "bloody fool" and threatened with arrest for walking off without permission.
Suddenly the loud, rustling wail was repeated and a portion of the wood was enveloped in a dark cloud. There was a deafening thunder-clap and jagged shell fragments sailed over our heads or dropped in our midst.
Then shell followed shell in rapid succession, all bursting in the wood. A piece of metal whizzed past the ear of a man standing a few yards away. He became unnerved, dashed towards one of the trucks and cowered down by the wheels, trembling in every muscle.
None of the others showed any sign of fear except anxious looks. We had been in no danger at all during the previous night's bombardment, but many of the men had been terrified. Now, when they were in considerable danger, they felt nothing more than anxiety, simply because there was no awe-inspiring display of flame and thunder.
Murky smoke clouds issued from the trees and hung above them in thin streaks. Another sound was added to the uproar—a long-drawn whine—and a sepia coloured puff appeared high up in the sky. A sharp ringing crack followed. Then another puff appeared, and then another. High-explosive and shrapnel shells continued to burst without intermission.
The frogs had ceased to croak, for one of our men, standing on the edge of the pond, was throwing pellets of mud at them. All at once he dropped like some inanimate object and lay on his side. At the same time a motor-ambulance came rushing up and stopped at the cross-roads. Two soldiers issued from the wood, carrying a stretcher. A wounded man was lying on it. He did not move arms or legs, but he howled and screamed;, his voice rising and falling in a weird inhuman manner. A little after, two more wounded were carried out on stretchers. They were white, silent and motionless.
A small crowd had gathered round the man who had fallen by the pond. He was laid on to a stretcher. He seemed rather dazed but did not look pale. A shrapnel ball had hit him in the back.
The human loads were pushed into the ambulance which disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Our anxiety had deepened. Many of us were walking up and down in agitation. Nevertheless, there was no hysteria and no ignominious expression of fear as there had been on the previous night.
At last the railway engine appeared, to the immense relief of everyone. We climbed into the trucks and the return journey began. The shelling continued unabated. Above the belt of poplars a little black speck was moving along at great speed. Around it and trailing behind it were numerous black puffs. The frogs had resumed their concert.
When we reached our destination we were met by several others of our unit who had arrived during the afternoon and were quartered in the town. Two of my friends were amongst them and together we walked over to their billet.
We entered a huge bare room and sat down on some of the kits that were arranged neatly round the floor.
"What sort of a time have you had?" I asked.
"Bloody awful.... The S.M. and the C.O. have been making our lives a misery. We've had umpteen extra drills and parades and kit inspections. There've been at least a dozen orderly-room cases and several court martials since you left. You know Deacon? He got fourteen days. Fritz has been over a good bit lately and we have to put out our lights as soon as it gets dark, else we'd cop out for sure. Well, one of our Sergeants had a candle burning in his tent and the flap wide open—you could have seen it a mile off, you've no idea how a candle shows at night-time! We heard the archies firing in the distance and we yelled, 'Put out that light!' The Sergeant didn't take any notice though—he was reading a book. So Deacon, who's got a decent bit of pluck, walked across and asked him to blow out his candle. The Sergeant told him to mind his own bloody business. So Deacon said he'd blow the candle out himself. The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to sling his bloody hook. Deacon got wild too—he's one of those fellows who won't stand any nonsense—and blew out the candle. The Sergeant went off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest. Deacon got a District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination. They gave him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way. They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full glare of the sun.
"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain—our rations aren't so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote: 'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off, though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and shouted, 'What are you grinning at—anything foonny?' Fletcher said, 'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M. shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we were standing to attention. Peter started talking—you could hear him as loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin' there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper. Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter replied, 'Cacoethes loquendi.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.
"I tell you, I'm jolly glad to be away from headquarters. We've got old Rusty in charge of us. He's been a bit of a worry-guts about having cleaned boots and buttons ever since he got his second pip, but he's quite a decent old stick taking him all round. He gets drunk every evening, so that he's generally too far gone to trouble about lights out. He doesn't make a fuss over our letters either—I believe he can only read a very plain hand and has to skip the longer words. A good job, too, for that's one thing I absolutely cannot stick, the way all our letters are read....
"I hear you've had some excitement? It put my wind up a bit when I heard about it. Still, I'm glad in a way—the monotony of our lives was becoming unbearable. I'd rather have shell-bursts than blasts of the S.M.'s whistle. Have many been dropping in the town recently?"
"A good few—I daresay you'll have some to-night if you're lucky. Yes, the S.M.'s whistle got on my nerves too. I was longing for a change and frightfully keen on seeing a bit of the war. I confess I wasn't particularly scared by the shells we had—of course, none of them came very near. But I don't want to have any more, not after seeing those wounded carried along on stretchers to-day. You're right in the town here and it's quite likely that you'll make a closer acquaintance with high-explosive shells than I've been able to make...."
I had hardly spoken when there was a faint muffled boom in the distance and a long, deepening howl, and then a loud explosion that shook the building.
A few minutes after a second shell passed overhead and exploded somewhere in the town.
Then, without the usual warning, there was a roar that seemed to split our heads and an impact that sent us reeling backwards against the wall. The room was filled with dense, pungent smoke and dust that choked and blinded us. Above the violent droning in our ears we could hear the clatter of falling bits of plaster and masonry. A whistle blew and there was a shout of "Clear Billet." We thronged the doorway and poured down the stairs, panic stricken, but before we had left the building there was another reverberating crash and once again we were enveloped by smoke and dust while the bits of plaster showered down upon us from the ceiling. I bowed my head and held my arm up to protect my face. Something whizzed closely by, and a man dropped heavily with a groan in front of me. He lay on his face with one arm doubled up underneath, quite motionless. Two men went up to him and crossed their hands under his chest to raise him. His blood was gushing out and forming a pool on the floor. As we dashed out into the road I saw an artilleryman standing alone on the cobbles and looking around in a scared fashion. There was another deafening explosion and dense clouds of smoke issued from a building forty or fifty yards away. Suddenly the artilleryman clutched his face with his hand. The blood began to stream through his fingers and down his wrist into his sleeve. He hurried away with staggering steps.
We left the town behind us and waited near a barn in the open fields. We were joined by the two men who had remained behind to help our wounded fellow soldier.
"Is it serious?" we asked.
"Serious?—He's done for, poor chap! A big bit of shell caught him right in the chest—it didn't half make a hole. We carried him away from the billet and sat him up against a wall. We couldn't stop the blood from flowing. He came to for a few seconds though, and moaned, 'O my poor mother! O my poor mother!' enough to break your heart. And then he seemed to lose consciousness again. The ambulance arrived and we laid him on a stretcher. I expect he died before he got to the hospital."
"Anybody else hit?"
"Two of our fellows—one of them pretty seriously. They could both walk though. A lot of men from other units have been killed. The last shell dropped into a mess-room and laid out a dozen or more, and just as we were coming along we saw an artilleryman lying in the road with a big hole right in the middle of his face. He was still warm but his heart had stopped beating. It's a bloody awful feeling to lose one of your mates, though."
"I can't make it out, some'ow. 'E was talkin' an' jokin' to me only a few minutes back, an' now 'e's dead. The way 'e said 'O me poor mother!' nearly set me cryin'. Poor old chap, 'e was one o' the best—it's allus the best as gets killed an' the rotters left alive."
No more shells dropped into the town that day, but instead of going back to the billet, the men made their beds in the barn at nightfall. I returned to camp, thinking of the man who was dead and wondering whose turn would come next.
"For who feels the horrors of war more than those who are responsible for its conduct? On whom does the burden of blood and treasure weigh most heavily? How can it weigh more heavily on any man or set of men than those on this bench?"
Mr. Balfour (House of Commons, June 20th, 1918.)
The rain came swishing down. Water gathered on the canvas above, and heavy drops fell splashing on to the floor with monotonous regularity. Somebody was muttering curses in his sleep. Others were snoring loudly. I lay awake for a long time, staring into the black darkness of the marquee. Suddenly—it must have been two or three o'clock in the morning—the familiar rumbling noise broke out in the distance. It seemed to spread along the whole horizon. The "stunt" had begun.
A drowsy voice growled: "They're at it again—why can't they stop it once and for all." Another groaned deeply and muttered: "Awful—awful slaughter—blackguards, blackguards."
The uproar increased. I was filled with a terrible dejection, but I went to sleep in the end.
It was broad daylight when I woke up to the sound of innumerable motor-cars coming and going out on the road. The wounded were streaming in.
The operating theatre was alive with figures clothed in white, blood-stained garments, bustling up and down, or standing in groups around the other tables. At the far end of the theatre someone was blubbering like a little child.
"Here, come on—hold this man's leg up. What d'you think you're here for?" It was the surgeon at the next table who was speaking to me.
I grasped the leg by the foot—it was quite cold—while the orderly removed a bandage from the thigh. The bone had been shattered. A bullet had also entered the man's chest, making a small round puncture. A shell fragment had struck his upper lip, leaving a jagged triangular hole below the nose. Several teeth had been knocked out. The upper palate had been gashed and partly separated from the bone. It hung inside the half-open mouth like a shrivelled flap. He breathed feebly and irregularly. The surgeon bent over him and asked him if he had been wounded long. He answered in low, hoarse whispers that he had been lying in the mud and rain for several days. Then he turned his eyes up so that only the whites were visible. They remained rigidly fixed in that position. He received a dorsal injection, being too weak for chloroform. The shattered thigh was painted with picric acid and the tourniquet tightened above the injury. The surgeon cut through the leg with a circular sweep of the knife, the splintered bone offering no resistance. The limb came off in my hands. I held it for a moment, being awed by it. It seemed very heavy. Then I dropped it into the pail below. When the surgeon had dressed the stump, he made a slight incision in the forearm in order to inject a saline solution. The man, who had not uttered a sound hitherto, winced and gave a faint cry.
"Come along—hold this leg up!"
I darted to the next table and seized another foot and ankle. There was a greenish festering hole so high up the leg that it was impossible to use a tourniquet. So the surgeon laid bare the main artery by a longitudinal incision and tied it up with catgut to prevent excessive loss of blood. With a rapid stroke of his knife he then made a shallow cut right round the limb above the injured spot, and depressing the blade cut deeply down to the bone. The blood gushed up suddenly, formed a pool on the towels and sheet underneath, overflowed the edge of the table, and splashed down on to the floor in a cascade. The operator paused a moment and then, while the blood continued to stream from the wound, he cut round the bone until flesh was entirely severed from flesh. The upper periosteum was pushed back and held by means of a metal plate. The bone was sawn through—the saw grated and jerked and jarred in a horrible manner. The leg came off and I dropped it into the white enamelled pail. The toe-nails clicked against the enamel, and the thigh, bumping against the rim, overturned it and flopped into the pool of blood under the table.
"Come on—look sharp—never mind that leg—give a help here and remove this man's bandages."
I was looking at a head that resembled a huge football made of soiled linen. In place of the mouth there was a small, dirty hole through which the fetid breath came and went. Above the hole was a big red patch. I unwound the bandages one by one. Gradually the face was revealed. Between the mouth with black, swollen lips and the bruised eyes, closed by grey greenish lids, there was, where the nose should have been, a red hole big enough to contain a human fist.
The wounded came and went in an unbroken stream. The tables were always occupied. I went from one to another, unwound bandages, held up limbs for amputation, fetched splints, padding, gauze, or new bandages. I was too busy to think or to feel any horror. I was vaguely conscious of nausea and of a hot, stifling atmosphere heavy with the fumes of chloroform and ether.
Some of the wounded had arms that hung by shreds of muscle and sinew. Others had feet that were nothing but masses of clotted blood, lumps of torn flesh, and bits of bone tied up in blood-sodden linen parcels. Some had deep holes in their backs, others had gashes in their heads from which soft, pink matter oozed.
Before me lay a man with a blackened face, a shattered knee, and festering holes all over his body. Gas-gangrene had set in and the stench was almost unendurable. The surgeon gently felt the injured leg, but the man gave such long-drawn piercing shrieks that he had to be left alone. He was sent to the resuscitation ward to recover strength a little, for he was very weak through loss of blood. In the evening he began to rave—he asked for whisky in a boisterously jovial voice, and then he yelled and cried: "Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant, you've ruined my career." In the night he died.
The wounded were often perfectly silent. But more often they would groan or wail or shout. Sometimes they would all howl in chorus like cats on a roof. Indeed the weird and terrible howling of wounded men is more like the howling of cats than any other sound I know.
Men regaining consciousness after an operation would sometimes laugh uproariously or cackle fiendishly. Or they would break into torrents of filthy language. One man yelled in a crazy voice that England was the most glorious country on earth and that he had done his best to be a good soldier. Then he was seized by a fit of violent weeping, while someone at the other end of the theatre was shouting with intense fury: "If I had Lloyd George here, I'd shoot the blighter," and another man was carried out with his head lolling from side to side and saying in mad, amiable tones: "Zig-zag, zagazig, zig-zag," and so on without a break.
A man who had undergone an operation some days previously was brought in to have his wound redressed—a deep laceration, that reached from knee to hip and exposed the thigh-bone. The padding was removed, but as soon as the raw flesh was touched he threw back his head, bared his teeth, and uttered shrill, piercing cries in sudden blasts, and nothing could be done to comfort him.
Near by a wounded man had been lying quietly on a table when all at once he gave a yell and, before we could rush to the spot, he plunged head foremost and crashed down on to the floor. We picked him up, but his mind seemed too confused to realize what had happened. He did not struggle any more, but gibbered and whimpered piteously.
If the chloroform and ether were not administered with great care and skill, the patients would choke and kick and make furious efforts to tear the mask from their faces. And so great was the number of wounded and so rapidly was it necessary to perform each operation, that it was not humanly possible to devote sufficient time to each individual case. Gas was the most merciful anodyne, but it could only be used for brief operations. Under its influence men became unconscious quickly and without a struggle, and they recovered consciousness without the fearful retching and vomiting that always followed the use of chloroform or ether. And yet, even with gas, haste and carelessness and defective apparatus added suffering to suffering.
On the table lay a man with a shattered gangrenous knee. He received gas and became unconscious, but, just as the bone was being sawn through, he regained his senses. His face was ashen pale and the sweat ran down it in big drops. He was too weak to struggle, but his eyes were staring in a way that was terrible to see. I held the foot and an orderly held the stump while the saw grated harshly as it cut through the bone, and the man moaned in piteous drawling tones: "Jesus Christ have mercy upon me, God Almighty have mercy upon me, and forgive me all my sins." When the operation was over, he was carried out, making unintelligible sounds.
He was followed by a man from whose chest I removed a filthy, blood-sodden mass of padding. I observed that his breathing was becoming weaker and weaker. The anæsthetist shouted:
"Fetch the oxygen—look sharp!"
An orderly brought a long black cylinder along, but the rubber tubing was knotted in a bundle and several seconds passed before it could be disentangled. At last the end of the tube was pushed into the mouth of the dying man. The tap of the cylinder was turned on, but there was no sound of gas running through. The anæsthetist glared angrily around and shouted: "Corporal Chamberlain!"
The Corporal came and the anæsthetist thundered:
"Go and get a new cylinder—this one's empty—your damned carelessness again—look sharp about it."
It was the Corporal's business to see that the cylinder in the theatre was always full. He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the cupboard in which the reserve cylinders were kept, but he could not find it. He walked out and searched in the shed opposite the theatre. He came back without it.
"Hurry up for God's sake—the man's dying—it'll be too late in a minute!"
He looked round the theatre with affected deliberation, for the angry shouting of the anæsthetist had wounded his pride. At last he found the key on a shelf. He unlocked the cupboard, fetched out a new cylinder, and placed it beside the table. The tube was pushed into the open mouth, the tap was turned, there was a rush of gas. But it was too late. The man was dead.
"D'you see what you've done?" shouted the infuriated anæsthetist. "Here's a man dead through your neglect. Don't you bloody well let it occur again, else I'll put you under close arrest and have you up for a court martial."
The Corporal walked sulking out of the theatre and muttered something about a "bloody fuss."
One of the orderlies went to the door and shouted:
"Another slab for the mortuary!"—Those who died on the operating tables were facetiously called "slabs."
Two bearers came in with a stretcher. The corpse was pushed on to it and carried away to the mortuary. There it would be sewn up in an army blanket, ready for burial. And then a telegram would be sent to a wife or mother, informing her that her husband or son had "died of wounds received in action."
There was amputation after amputation. The surgeons were tired of cutting off legs and arms—it was "so monotonous and uninteresting," as one of the sisters put it.
Then there came a little variety in the shape of a man with a bullet wound in his throat. He breathed quite normally, but when the bandage was removed, his breath rushed bubbling through the aperture and bespattered all who stood around with little drops of blood. "A most unpleasant case." He was quickly replaced, however, by another who lay on a stretcher white and motionless. His tunic had been unbuttoned. His shirt had been pulled loosely over a big, round object that appeared to be lying on his belly. The surgeon drew back the shirt. The round object was still concealed by a dirty piece of lint. The surgeon lifted it off and revealed a huge coil of bluish red entrail bulging out through a frightful gash in the abdomen.
"Here, Crawford, here's something for you!"
Captain Crawford was an abdominal specialist, at least he was particularly interested in abdominal cases, or "belly cases" as they were humorously termed. Captain Wheeler, who had called him, was interested in knee cases. Captain Maynard, who was working at the far end of the theatre, had a fondness for head cases.
"Such a delightful tummy, isn't it?" said Captain Wheeler, who spoke in the affected drawl of our public schools and universities.
"Rather," replied Captain Crawford, who had come over from his table holding a blood-stained scalpel in his hand. He added:
"Just my rotten luck—I've only had amputations."
He looked at the bulging entrail admiringly and went back to his work. In a few minutes he was ready for the next case—a man whose head was thickly swathed in bandages.
"That's a bit of a change, anyhow—I'm fed up with legs and arms."
The bandages were removed. Amid a mass of tangled, blood-clotted hair was an irregular patch where a piece of bone had been blown away, leaving the brain-matter exposed.
The Sister looked at it with eager curiosity and said:
"A most interesting case. I'm sure Captain Maynard would so love to see it! Captain Maynard!"
"One moment, Sister!" He was busy with a delicate knee operation. After a little delay he came over and inspected the damaged head.
"You've got all the luck," he said. "I haven't had a decent head for ages. Still, I s'pose we have to put up with these annoyances—horrors of war, you know!" He laughed and the Sister smiled. Then he went back to his knee while Captain Wheeler attended to the head.
It must not be supposed that the surgeons, sisters and orderlies of the ----th C.C.S. were particularly cruel and heartless. They were simply ordinary human beings and the ordinary human being, however he may be horrified by the first sight of wounds and suffering, soon gets used to them and accepts them as facts of everyday life.
It was growing dark outside and the electric light was switched on. The wounded still arrived in multitudes. Towards eight o'clock the day-shift came to an end and the night-shift began. We had no time to clear the theatre. The new surgeons continued where the old had left off. They were in high spirits and set to work merrily, exchanging jokes all the time.
The bearers were utterly exhausted and several of them had blue rings round their eyes through lack of sleep.
"Poor bearers," said one of the Sisters, "I do feel so sorry for them—they have an awfully hard time!"
Captain Dowden—another "head specialist"—said to me:
"Give the bearers a bit of a rest. Go to the Prep. yourself and bring me a nice head case."
I went accompanied by an orderly. The Prep. was a long marquee and on either side was a long row of stretchers, one close up against another. A man was lying on each, generally silent and motionless. Only a few were groaning feebly. We selected one whose head looked like a parcel of blood-sodden bandages. We carried him into the theatre and laid him on to the table.
The bandages were unwound. The man's hair was matted and caked with gore. There were three deep gashes in the skull. The head was washed and shaved and then painted with picric acid. The brilliant electric light, the clean white garments of the fresh teams, the bare head painted bright yellow and the three thin streaks of red blood trickling down made a strange picture. The largest wound was just above one ear. A local anæsthetic was injected and the skin round the injury pushed back. With a pair of curved pincers the surgeon broke away bits of bone from the edge of the hole. Then he pushed his little finger deeply into it and fetched out a large bone fragment and a quantity of soft matter, coloured a pale red, which he allowed to flop down on to the floor. The man was motionless except that he violently wagged his left big toe. And all the time he made a continuous cooing, purring noise, like that of a brooding hen.