Behind the Lines

by Morris, W. F. ;

  Presently they found themselves in a narrow rutted lane between two cottages and an orchard. It was that down which the scout had first disappeared. It led them to the main, and indeed only, street of the village. Several of the outcasts were already there prowling along with rifles at the ready like bandits in a film drama. A woman carrying a bucket opened a cottage door as three of them were passing, and at the sight of them she screamed, dropped the bucket, and slammed the door. A few yards down the street a lorry was drawn up on the cobbles close to a house. The wooden notice-board hanging outside the door proclaimed it to be the A.S.C. unit’s office. The half-dozen men inside had already been held up by Kelly’s bodyguard, and were now herded together in a small back room. Two of the outcasts had been pressed into service to guard them under the command of one of the bodyguard.

  Outside the A.S.C. unit’s little canteen a sorry-looking horse was being harnessed to a dilapidated spring-cart, and Kelly’s companions were busily engaged in transferring the contents of the canteen to the cart. Doors and shutters had closed as by magic, but the outcasts set to work with rifle butts, crowbars, and any farm implements that came to hand to batter them open. Kelly, watchful and alert, strode up and down and urged them on. Many of the villagers fled through their back gardens and reached the open country, but the screams which rose now and then above the shouts, thunderous blows, splinter of wood and tinkle of broken glass proclaimed that some had been less wise.

  The throb of a motor-cycle was drowned in the uproar, but it did not escape the attentive ear of Kelly. He whipped round in time to see at the end of the street a despatch rider turn his machine and shoot back the way he had come. Kelly slipped the rifle from his shoulder and rested it against a pump that stood on the cobbles by the roadside. Five full seconds passed before the crack of the rifle echoed in the narrow street. The despatch rider sped on his way for another twenty yards; and then his machine swerved and crashed head on into the wall of a barn. Kelly re-shot the bolt of his rifle and lowered the weapon with a satisfied grin.

  Dusk was descending upon the stricken village. The street was littered with broken glass and the splintered wood of doors and shutters. The raiders in their search for loot had spared nothing. The contents of presses and chests had been wantonly flung through the windows, and bed linen and articles of female attire now hung forlornly on bushes and garden shrubs, and lay trampled into the mire. Two chests of drawers that had been pushed bodily from an upper window lay smashed in the street below, vomiting their contents over the muddy pavé. The cottages had been stripped of everything that was valuable and movable. Even chairs and mattresses that had been dragged out and then abandoned as too cumbersome lay here and there upon the road.

  The raiders moved from house to house, cursing and quarrelling over the spoils. Figures passed bearing strange burdens. One man had three chickens slung over his shoulder, and the blood from their recently cut throats dribbled down the back of his coat and left a trail on the road behind him. Another had a feather bed rolled up and roped to his shoulders. A man in a stained black overcoat had two hams dangling from his web belt. One man had a half side of bacon lashed on his chest like a breastplate. Nearly all carried bundles of blankets and clothing.

  The scene nauseated Rawley. He had half filled his sack in the wrecked canteen with articles left by Kelly’s companions, but he refused to plunder the cottages. “I’ve sunk low enough, my God!” he cried savagely to Alf’s importunities. “But not to this.” Alf’s philosophy was more accommodating. “If I don’t take the stuff, some other bloke will,” was his point of view. He was laden with a ham, two long French loaves, three bottles of wine, and a locked leather suit-case he had unearthed in an upper room.

  Darkness had come, but lights showed here and there through the broken windows and revealed the raiders in twos and threes eating and drinking in the wrecked little cottage rooms. Some had already drunk much and were shouting and singing uproariously. From one cottage where a lamp had been overturned a pillar of smoke was rolling up into the night. Suddenly a tongue of flame leapt from the thatched roof and shed a ruddy glow over the shattered street.

  Rawley grabbed Alf by the arm as he emerged from a cottage. “I’ve had enough of this,” he cried. “And so have you, you ruddy little ruffian.”

  Alf agreed. “There ain’t much left,” he said philosophically. “And that perishin’ fire’ll bring visitors. We’ll clear before the trouble starts.”

  Glass crunched underfoot as they went down the street where the broken fragments glittered in the light of the dancing flames. The roof was now blazing furiously, and in the cottage garden, dangerously near the falling sparks, half a dozen drunken raiders with linked hands were howling and dancing like madmen. Rawley’s last view of the flame-lit village street before he turned uphill towards the dark line of the wood showed him the tall dark figure of Kelly dragging a struggling girl from a cottage door. He half turned back, but Alf seized his arm and dragged him on.

  CHAPTER XVII

  I

  It was a long and dreary tramp back to the dug-out, and they arrived almost dead beat. Rawley flung himself full length upon his bunk, too tired and sick at heart even to smoke. Alf crept under his frowzy blankets and dozed. Hunger, however, roused them. Unlike the majority of the raiders, they had eaten little since morning, and as soon as the more immediate aches of fatigue had subsided, they began to think of food and the luxuries they had brought from the village. The ham was set out on the rickety table, one of the bottles of wine, a long French loaf, some real fresh farm butter and a tin of peaches. It was a feast, and they did full justice to it. The wine and the food dispelled what remained of their fatigue, and Rawley, with his pipe drawing well, and his bootless feet wrapped in soft, comfortable sandbags, was no longer in despair.

  “Damn that swine Kelly,” he cried. “I’ve had enough of him, the murdering hound. I’ve done some pretty bloody things since I took to this God-forsaken devastated area, but I draw the line at murder and rape and robbing and burning old women’s cottages. If I can’t live without that, I’ll starve. But I can live without that. My brains are as good as Kelly’s—and a damn sight better. And I’m going to use ’em. I’m going to scrounge my own rations, and there will be no murdering and burning about it. It’s the E.F.C. and the War Office that’s going to lose; not old peasants and their wives.”

  Alf paused in his job of trying to pick the lock of the suit-case with a bit of wire. He was worried about it. It was a beautiful leather suit-case, and he was sure there was something valuable inside. He did not want to have to smash the lock. He was only half listening to what Rawley was saying. He re-bent the wire and again inserted it into the lock. “But Kelly won’t stand for that,” he said conversationally. “We’ll have to join in his stunts. An’ if he twigs you’re gettin’ stuff on your own, he’ll make you share out.”

  “He damn well won’t,” cried Rawley decisively. “Because he won’t know anything about it in the first place, and he won’t get the chance in the second. I’m going to clear out of this. There’s plenty of room in this God-forsaken desert, and I’m going to find a place that’s a good many miles from Mr. Kelly and his gang of hooligans. You can stay if you like.”

  Alf forgot his suit-case. He regarded Rawley with dismay. “What, you going to leave ’ere!” he cried. He glanced round the dug-out which had never before seemed so cosy. “You going to leave all this—what we’ve taken weeks to make all cushy!”

  Rawley nodded. “I expect there are other palaces in the devastated area nearly as luxurious as this,” he said, with a grim smile. “But you are not bound to go unless you want to.”

  Alf took a cigarette from one of the new tins they had brought from the village. He lighted it with care at the lamp and sat down again on his bunk. He surveyed the dug-out in silence, the cigarette held between the first finger and thumb of one of the dirty hands that rested on his knees. He flicked away the ash and took another puff, and by projecting h
is lower lip sent the smoke spurting upwards past his face. He watched it a moment with upturned eyes. Then he said, shortly, “I’m with yer, mate.”

  “Good for you!” said Rawley. “Then we’ll stick together, and we’ll make a damn sight better and cleaner living than Kelly does.”

  “Yes, I’m with you,” went on Alf solemnly. His hands still rested on his knees, and a spiral of smoke rose from the cigarette between his finger and thumb. “I didn’t never go to no Sunday school, but I reckon Kelly’s a bit too hot for me. I didn’t ’arf get the wind up when that fire started. Arskin’ for trouble, that was.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and took another puff. “This district’s going to be bleedin’ unhealthy afore long, mark my words. I can see it acomin’. Yes, mate, you’re right. We’ll move afore someone calls for the rent.”

  Rawley knocked out his pipe and opened a fresh tin of tobacco. “The question is, where to go,” he said, as he pushed the strands into the warm bowl. “Of course, the farther the better.” He got up and took from a shelf some old maps he had found in various dug-outs. “The scheme would be to take a little stuff with us and go exploring. Then when we have found a suitable place, we can dump the stuff and come back for the rest.” He opened the maps and scanned them thoughtfully. “Do you know, I believe it would be safer and in many ways more convenient to find a place on the edge of the devastated area near a main road.” He studied the maps again. “Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Albert for instance. That’s far enough away from Kelly to be quite comfortable and near enough to places like Bapaume where there ought to be canteens and dumps worth looting. Unfortunately I don’t know that part of the world.”

  “I do,” said Alf. “Too bleedin’ well. I was there all ’16, ever since we come down from Bethune for the Somme.” Suddenly he smote his thigh with such vigour that the cigarette between his fingers dropped to the floor. He picked it up and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. “Boy, I know the very place! We was there in August ’16. We ’ad the guns on the edge of a little wood, though there weren’t much of a wood about it, if you know what I mean. We rigged up bivvys in an old Jerry trench what ran through it. And the orficers had a cushy little place in a cellar. Yer see there was an ’ouse in the middle of the wood, what ’ad been knocked flat, ’an they had the mess in the cellar underneath. It was one of them arched places—you know, like them places under a church. Keep out the biggest stuff and dry as a bone. I went down there once with a message for the captain, and coo, it looked orl right! They had a lot of them saucy French coloured pitchers round the walls, and a proper white tablecloth on the table. Looked just like home, it did.”

  “Whereabouts was it?” asked Rawley.

  “Nigh to Contalmaison; betwixt there and La Boiselle. But it warn’t too healthy then, ’cause Jerry was in Ovillers and shootin’ pretty nearly into our backs. But we pushed him out of that on September 13th.”

  Rawley was studying the map. “You must have been somewhere here,” he said, dabbing a finger.

  Alf peered over his shoulder. “What’s that place there?”

  “Poizières.”

  “That’s right. We was facin’ Poizières, only you couldn’t see it from the battery ’cause the guns was in a holler. Contalmaison, or what was left of it, was on our right, on the other side of the holler.”

  “I’ve got you now,” said Rawley. “There is a little valley west of the village. You must have had this road running diagonally across your flank. It runs through Poizières—to Bapaume.”

  “That’s right,” said Alf excitedly. “The Bapaume road. It was about ’arf a mile away. You could see it when you went up to the top of the slope.”

  Rawley made a mark on the map. “This one-over-a-hundred-thousand map only shows the big woods, but I’ve fixed the spot within a hundred yards or so. It sounds as though it were just the place we’re after. Anyway, we will go and have a look at it.” He folded up the map. “We’ll turn in for a spot of sleep and then off we go.”

  Alf lighted a fresh cigarette from the stump of an old one and swung his legs on the bunk. “Coo, why didn’t I think of that before!” he exclaimed. “Why, we shall be a ’eap better off there than we are ’ere.”

  Rawley was taking off his coat. “What about water?” he asked suddenly.

  “There’s a well belongin’ to the ’ouse, but we never used it,” said Alf.

  “Well, there is bound to be one in Contalmaison, anyway.”

  Alf rose with a yawn, and began to take off his coat, but he stopped with his arms outstretched as a sudden thud sounded from the shaft leading to the trench. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  They both stood motionless looking towards the shaft. A moment later the noise was repeated. “Someone knocking at the door,” said Rawley. They always blocked the narrow entrance of the shaft with a baulk of timber, wedged into place with a small pit-prop.

  Alf’s face had grown pale under its covering of dirt. “The bleedin’ red caps,” he whispered.

  “Not likely—so soon,” said Rawley.

  Alf recovered himself and took his big revolver from the shelf over his bunk. “I’ll go and have a listen,” he whispered, and tip-toed off up the steps.

  Rawley heard the sound of muffled voices, and then of footsteps approaching. Alf came back into the dug-out, followed by a man whom Rawley recognized as one of Kelly’s bodyguard.

  “It’s a message from Kelly,” said Alf. “He says we’ve got to clear out.”

  The man looked round the dug-out and then at Rawley. “Yes,” he said. “There’s going to be trouble over that little dust up this afternoon. Some of the A.P.M.’s push came into the village soon after we left, and they’ll be nosing around here before long, I shouldn’t wonder. You’re all to come right along to the redoubt. That’s Kelly’s orders.” He nodded towards the two rifles that Alf kept in a corner. “Bring those along and all the ammo you’ve got. We’ll give that bloody A.P.M. the surprise of his life if he comes nosing round here.”

  Rawley had been regarding the speaker with silent hostility, and something of this must have showed in his face, for the man added sharply: “Now then, jump to it. Pack up and clear.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re going to clear out all right,” said Rawley. “But you can tell Kelly to go to hell. We’re not going to his redoubt to shoot down honest men just to help to save his dirty skin.” The man had turned towards the shaft, but he spun round at Rawley’s words, and there was an ugly look on his face. “Oh, you’re not, aren’t you!” he growled. “Too bloody proud to fight, eh!” He spat contemptuously on the floor. “Feet too bloody cold, you mean. You think you’re going to clear out and save your own flaming skin. P’raps you think you’ll put yourself all right with the red caps by showing them where your pals are cached. I should ruddy well smile! Too bloomin’ soft-hearted to shoot honest men!”

  Rawley whipped up Alf’s revolver from the table. “Honest men, yes, but not you and your sort. Clear out, quick!”

  The fellow backed slowly with contracted brows. “All right,” he growled. “But don’t you think you’ll get away with this.” Then he turned suddenly and dived up the steps.

  Rawley followed slowly and re-blocked the entrance with the baulk of timber. He wedged it firmly with the pit-prop and returned to the dug-out.

  II

  Alf was sitting dejectedly upon his bunk. “You didn’t ought to have done that,” he said. “Kelly’s a fair devil when he’s riled.”

  Rawley flung the revolver noisily on the table. “Kelly can go to hell,” he cried.

  “But why didn’t you tell that bloke we was coming to the redoubt, then when he’d gone we could’ve nipped off on the quiet,” persisted Alf, in an aggrieved tone.

  Rawley thumped the table with his hand. “Because I’m not going to bother to lie to a swine like that,” he yelled.

  Alf shrugged his shoulders and got off his bunk. “Well, we’ve done it now, anyway,” he said, with a resigned sigh.
“And the sooner we partit from this neighbourhood the better.” He picked up a sack and began filling it.

  Rawley watched him moodily for a few moments, and then picked up another sack. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “No good meeting trouble when you can avoid it.”

  Alf did not pause in his task of stuffing tins into the sack. “Too true,” he agreed. “Once I get on top there, you won’t see me for dust.”

  Rawley threw down his sack. “Look here,” he said. “It’s no good just stuffing things in. We can’t take everything, that’s obvious. And it’s very doubtful if we shall be able to come back for more later. So let’s decide what we are going to take. It’s no good loading ourselves up so that we can’t move.”

  They spread their possessions out on the floor—their store of food, tools, candle ends, blankets and clothing. Rawley surveyed them with his hands in his pockets. “Well, it’s pretty clear that we can’t take a quarter of that,” he said.

  Alf nodded dolefully. “It do seem ’ard lines to ’ave to leave all that good stuff,” he complained.

  “Well, let’s eliminate,” said Rawley. He indicated the battered gramophone, and its one warped record with his toe. “That’s out, anyway. And we can’t take the lamp or the oil; therefore the candles must come. The ham comes, of course, and the bulk of the tinned stuff. There’s those two remaining bottles of wine. Can’t possibly take them. Must drink ’em before we go, that’s all. Then blankets; must have those. And we’ll roll up some underclothes inside ’em.” He pulled his blankets from his bunk. “We will roll up the blankets first and strap them on, and then we will see how much more we can carry comfortably.”