Rawley spread his blankets on the floor, placed his spare underclothes and one or two treasures on top, and began to roll them up. A dull thud from the direction of the steps stopped him. He paused with his head raised, listening. A scraping noise came faintly from the top of the shaft. Neither spoke. The scratching and bumping noise continued. Rawley rose from his knees and silently took one of the rifles from the corner. He pulled back the bolt. The magazine was full. He re-shot the bolt, sending a round into the breach. Alf too rose to his feet, and his hand went out to his revolver.
Rawley walked to the foot of the shaft and stood with one foot on the bottom step. He held the rifle lightly in his two hands. He shouted up the shaft, “Keep out of here. You haven’t got an earthly. We can shoot you down one by one as you come—and we will if you try it.”
There was no reply. The noises had ceased, and an uncanny silence reigned. Rawley moved from the foot of the shaft and glanced round the dug-out. His glance rested on the lamp that hung from the centre beam. His eye travelled from it to the shaft; then he moved the lamp to a nail nearer the wall. “They might try to shoot out the light,” he said, in a low voice.
They waited side by side for the attack, their eyes fixed on the foot of the shaft, their ears strained to catch the slightest sound. But none came.
Rawley lowered the butt of his rifle to the floor. “They’ve thought better of it,” he said. “They would not have stood an earthly, and they know it.” He lifted his foot to step over his roll of blankets on the floor, but he never completed the pace. A great gust of hot air leapt from the foot of the shaft, caught him up, and hurled him to the floor. The light was extinguished; the dug-out vibrated as though rocked by an earthquake; and a mighty roar smote his ear drums.
He lay where he had fallen, half stunned by concussion, but his experiences under bombardment in the gun-pits had taught him to think quickly in moments such as this. One hand still retained its grasp of the rifle, and before the earth, splintered timber and stones had ceased to hurtle through the darkness, he dragged himself to a sitting position and pushed forward the safety-catch. “Alf!” he cried. “Alf! Look out; they’ll try to rush us now.”
Alf’s voice grunted from the darkness beside him. No other sound, except the trickle of a few pebbles down the steps, broke the silence. “You all right?” whispered Rawley.
“Yes.”
“Got your revolver?”
“Yes.”
A gallery of a deserted coal mine could not have been darker or more silent. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of high explosive.
They had looted a packet of matches from the village canteen. Rawley had a box in his pocket. “Look out,” he whispered. “Keep your eye on the shaft. I’m going to strike a light. If anyone appears—shoot.”
A match scraped on the box, and a little flame spluttered up, disclosing smoky fumes wreathed like a fog around them, and Alf propped on one elbow, his revolver pointing somewhat shakily towards the shaft foot. The floor of the dug-out was littered with earth and stones. No sound came from the shaft.
The lamp lay smashed beside the overturned table, but among the stores that were spread out on the floor lay their collection of candle ends. Rawley slipped his left arm through the sling of his rifle and crawled forward, holding the half-burned match in his right hand. He propped up a candle end and lighted it. Then without removing his eyes from the foot of the shaft, he righted the table with one hand, placed the candle on it, and rose to his feet.
Alf too rose cautiously.
Rawley, with a finger on the trigger guard, tip-toed to the shaft, paused a moment listening, and disappeared up the steps.
He was back in a moment, and leaned his rifle carelessly against the wall. “Well?” whispered Alf, who stood holding his revolver ready.
“It’s all right,” said Rawley in natural tones. “You can put that down. They’re not coming.”
Alf slowly lowered his revolver. “’Ow do you know they ain’t comin’?” he demanded.
Rawley pulled his pipe from his pocket, shook some earth from the bowl, and began filling it deliberately. “ ’Ow do you know?” repeated Alf.
Rawley did not look up. “They can’t,” he said. “They’ve blown in the shaft.”
Alf’s jaw dropped. “Watcher mean?” he said.
Rawley jerked his head towards the shaft. “Go and see for yourself.”
Alf gazed at Rawley for a moment, and then he stumbled quickly across to the foot of the shaft and disappeared. He re-appeared slowly, dropped his revolver on the table, and sat down on his earth-sprinkled bunk. He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimy hand. “Yars they’ve got us all right,” he said dejectedly.
Rawley threw away the match with which he had extravagantly been lighting his pipe. “What do you mean—‘got us’?” he demanded.
“Got us!” repeated Alf, with vehemence. “Bloody well got us. We’re buried alive, ain’t we? An’ all through your ruddy yappin’ with that chap.”
“Not a bit of it,” said Rawley. “We can dig ourselves out.”
“What, with a trenchin’ tool!” exclaimed Alf, with caustic sarcasm. “We ain’t got nothin’ else, you know that. An’ there’s thirty foot o’ muck there, if there’s an inch.”
“It will be a long job, I know,” said Rawley. “But we’ve plenty of time. We’ve any amount of grub and water—how about the water, though!” He strode across and inspected the tins. “One full and one half full, including several handfuls of earth. That’s enough, if we go easy.” He came back and sat down on the edge of his bunk. “What they have forgotten is”—he nodded towards the little alcove where the bucket fire was kept—“is that. They’ve forgotten the pipe. If they’d blocked that up, we would have been suffocated.”
Alf took a brighter view of the situation. “Oh, well,” he said, “I s’pose you’re right. We might ’ave been foot-sloggin’ it outside an’ ’ere we are still in ’ome sweet ’ome. It’s a perishin’ ill wind what blows nobody no good! But they’ve made a bleedin’ mess,” he added, as he surveyed the rubble-littered floor.
“Oh, well, let’s clear it up,” said Rawley. He put the ham on the table and flicked off the dirt with a bit of rag.
“’Ow do you reckon they did it?” asked Alf.
“Shoved a six-inch or a toffee apple outside the plank and touched it off with a plunger. Easy enough.”
Alf went down on his knees and shook his blankets to rid them of the soil which covered them; but the thud of some heavy object falling in the alcove made him pause and turn his head in that direction. And at the same moment Rawley, it seemed, went mad; he leapt upon Alf like an avalanche and knocked him flat.
A stunning, ripping crack smote the ear-drums like a blow; the candle went out; and a number of deep-toned buzzing noises, like a flight of bumble bees, droned noisily across the darkness and ended in a series of sharp smacks and dull thuds.
Rawley released his hold. “All right?” he asked.
“What the hell was that?” panted Alf.
“Mills’ bomb. I saw it just as it landed. The swine must have dropped it down the chimney.” He began to crawl across the floor. “Don’t get up,” he said. “There may be more to follow.” His outstretched arm touched the table leg, and he raised himself, and felt along the top for the candle. He found it, and felt in his pocket for the matches. But he did not strike one; instead he put the candle in his pocket. “If they look down the chimney they will see the light,” he muttered. “We shall hear it drop, anyway.” He tilted the table on to its side and dragged it back to where Alf lay. They crouched behind it listening.
Rawley could hear the beating of his own heart and Alf’s laboured breathing; there was no other sound except the intermittent scuffling of a rat behind the revetment. He held his breath and strained his ears. He thought he could detect a faint sound in the direction of the chimney. Yes, he was sure now: a scraping noise, but very faint.
A second explosion shook the
dug-out, but the sound was muffled and seemed to come from above. Stones pattered on the earth floor and clattered as they hit the invisible bucket. Then silence settled down once more.
Rawley took the candle end from his pocket and lighted it. He scrambled to his feet and righted the table. Alf too rose gingerly. “Is it all right?” he asked.
Rawley did not reply. He stood looking down at the stones and earth that was mingled with the wood ash in the fire bucket and lay on the floor round about. Then he put his head down and looked up the chimney.
“Look out!” cried Alf. “If they drops another . . .”
Rawley turned from the alcove and looked round the dug-out without speaking. Then he strode across to Alf’s bunk and took a cigarette from the tin on the shelf above. He lighted it at the candle and puffed at it for a moment. Then he strode to the alcove and puffed smoke across the bottom of the chimney. The blue wreaths curled lazily along the low roof of the recess; a little disappeared slowly up the chimney.
Rawley dropped the cigarette into the fire-bucket, and went and sat on the edge of his bunk. Mechanically he pulled out his pipe and filled it. Alf watched him in silence. “What ’ave they done?” he asked at last.
Rawley pulled the table to him and lighted his pipe at the candle. “They’ve blocked up the chimney,” he said.
“Are ye sure?” demanded Alf.
“’Fraid so; there’s no draught.”
Alf dropped rather wearily on to the edge of his bunk. His face was a little pale. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, that’s torn it, right up the leg. Can’t we do nothin’?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to think. Of course, we ought to put that out.” He nodded towards the candle. “And I ought not to smoke. Burning up air. But what’s the odds, anyway.”
“Couldn’t we dig ourselves out?”
Rawley shook his head. “Not in time. The devil of it is, that chimney is a good thirty feet long, and we’ve got nothing that would go up—not that it would be likely to be any good if we had.” He looked round the dug-out, estimating the latent possibilities of each article it contained. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “By jove, of course—the rifles!” He took his rifle from the floor where it had fallen, and pushed forward the safety-catch. Alf, too, had dived for his rifle and was ramming a round in the breech. Rawley suddenly dropped his butt on the floor. “Wait a minute,” he cried. “Go easy. They may still be up there, and if we clear the chimney, they’ll only block it up again. We must let them think they have done it all right, and give them time to go away.” He sat down again on the edge of his bunk.
Alf stood with his rifle balanced in his hands. “I don’t like waitin’,” he said. “Fair gives me the creeps, it do. Supposin’ the air give out. . . .”
“It won’t yet awhile,” said Rawley. “We will wait ten minutes by your watch. Hang it up where we can see it.”
Alf put down his rifle and hung up the watch. “Seem to be gettin’ pretty phuggy already,” he said nervously.
Rawley had thought the same himself, but had not liked to put his thoughts into words. “It’s the fumes from the H.E.,” he said carelessly. “If we put out the candle it will help.”
But Alf shook his head vehemently. “No, mate; if I’m going west, let’s ’ave a light. It’ll be more cheerful-like than in the dark.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the watch. “Supposin’ the rifle won’t clear it.”
“It must,” said Rawley. “Let’s see—how much earth will a bullet penetrate? It’s in Musketry Regs. What is it now? . . . three feet, I believe. That’s if it’s loose earth. If you ram it tight the resisting power is less. The earth up there is probably pretty tight, so we’ll go through three feet all right. There can’t be more than six or seven feet of earth wedged in the pipe, if that. So we have only to keep shooting away, and we must get through. By the by, how much ammunition have we got?”
“There’s pretty nearly a full box,” said Alf.
“No trouble on that score then. You see, we must get through—unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless—well, unless they’ve wedged a dud in the chimney. But no, they cannot have done that. There would have been no need of that explosion then. They’ve either blown in the top of the chimney or exploded a grenade a little way down. It sounded to me like a grenade.” He glanced at the watch. “Another five minutes.”
Alf groaned.
“Look here, how about a drink to put some buck into us?” suggested Rawley. “We can’t take those two bottles with us, anyway. Come on.” He took up one of the bottles wrapped it in a sandbag, and neatly knocked off the neck. He filled their two mugs and pushed one towards Alf. He raised his mug and glanced round the dug-out. Then he stood up and bowed towards his rifle that leaned against the wall. “Here’s to Mr. Lee-Enfield,” he said. “Short Mr. Lee-Enfield—coupled with the name of that pushing little fellow Mr. Mark Six, or whatever it is, Three-O-Three.”
“’Ear, ’ear!” said Alf with a grin. “Bleedin’ well ’ear, ’ear—an’ more perishin’ power to his push.” They drained the mugs.
“How’s that?” said Rawley.
Alf smacked his lips, and pushed his mug forward. “Fill up, chum. It ain’t no good keepin’ that broken bottle. Another pint of this tack an’ I’ll push kebs over.”
Rawley glanced at the watch. “Right’o. Just time for another.”
Alf lighted a cigarette and they drank again. Rawley put down his empty mug and rose. “Time, gentlemen, please,” he said. He took his rifle and moved towards the recess. Alf followed. Rawley pushed forward the safety catch and thrust the barrel up the chimney. Then he pulled it down again and turned to Alf. “Is the chimney straight?” he asked.
Alf nodded.
“Sure? I mean, we don’t want to shoot into the ground.”
“There’s a bit of a slant,” said Alf. “But you can see daylight when you look up.”
Rawley examined the chimney. “I see,” he said. “It slopes this way a bit.” He went down on one knee, rested the butt of the rifle on the other, and held the barrel in the centre of the pipe. “Here goes,” he said. “Stand clear.”
The report was deafening in the confined space, and was followed by a little avalanche of earth down the chimney. Rawley shook the earth from the bolt and sent another round into the breech. “Bring that cigarette here,” he said. He held the cigarette under the chimney, but the smoke displayed no great tendency to rush up it. “Ah, well, can’t expect to do the trick first go off. We shall have to peg away at it. I’ll empty the magazine and then try it.”
He fired the other nine rounds and stood up. Alf held the cigarette underneath, but with no result.
“We’ve brought down some earth anyway,” said Rawley. “You have a go now, while I reload.”
He dragged out the box of S.A.A. and took out a handful of clips. The already vitiated air was now heavy with the reek of burnt cordite. There was no longer any need to hold a cigarette beneath the chimney. The fumes hung in wreathes that made breathing difficult. Alf was firing round after round up the chimney.
“Steady!” warned Rawley. “Make sure you’re not plugging into the side of the pipe higher up, or you will do more harm than good.”
Alf ejected the last case from the breech and drew his hand across his damp forehead. “It ain’t ’arf gettin’ stuffy in ’ere,” he said. “Do you think we’ll do it, chum?”
“Rather! You load up again while I have a go.” Rawley fired each round deliberately, pausing before each pressure of the trigger to ensure accuracy of aim. And he turned his eyes frequently to the fumes that clung lazily to the low roof of the recess. He thought he detected a slight tendency to float up the chimney. Alf stood ready with his rifle reloaded. Rawley put out his hand for it. “Let me carry on for a bit,” he said. He fired three more rounds deliberately, pausing after each to watch the behaviour of the fumes. After the third round th
e fumes slid round the edge of the chimney in a small continuous stream like an inverted water-fall. He fired several more rounds before his rifle and hands were deluged with a small avalanche of earth. Then he stood up. The fumes in the neighbourhood of the chimney were gravitating towards it, moving faster and with more decision as they neared it, till finally they whisked round the edge and up out of sight.
Rawley leaned his rifle against the wall and sat down rather wearily on his bunk. “All clear!” he said, and felt for his pipe.
Alf mopped his face with a dirty rag. “I don’t mind sayin’,” he confessed, “that put the wind up me proper.”
“Me, too,” agreed Rawley. “Anyway, it’s all right now.”
“Now we got to dig ourselves out.”
“Not now. Personally, I’m pretty nearly all in. The best thing we can do is to turn in for a bit; and then we’ll go at it like navvies when we wake up.”
Alf demurred. He did not like the feeling of being buried like a corpse even though there was now plenty of air. Why not start digging at once.
“What, for half an hour—and then be too tired to move for hours after?” objected Rawley. “No. Turn in and have a good sleep. We shall get through twice the amount of work in half the time when we are fresh. After all, that blessed landslide won’t run away.” And so they crawled into their bunks and were soon asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
I
Rawley was first awake, and he lay for some minutes in the intense darkness going over in his mind the events of the previous hours. He was reassured to find that the air was comparatively fresh, for he had been unable to rid himself entirely of the fear that Kelly’s gang might have heard the noise of the firing and returned to re-block the chimney. At last he put out his hand and felt for the matches on the shelf above the bunk. He struck one cautiously and lighted the candle stump on the table. He propped up a tattered magazine to shield the light from Alf who lay snoring in the other bunk.
Their stores, with the exception of the ham, still lay on the floor. He surveyed them thoughtfully. Where was the ham? Why, yes, he had put it on the table to flick the dirt from it just before that first bomb came down the chimney. And then the candle had gone out, and—oh yes—he had upset the table so as to form some sort of protection against further bombs. The ham must be on the floor somewhere then.
Behind the Lines Page 20
