No Hero-This

by Warwick Deeping

  “We seem to be offensing pretty well down south. What’s the idea?”

  “Oh, the American idea is a sort of wild stampede. To go through and over the Boche without stopping. Masses of men and bombs and bayonets, and all that.”

  “Our old idea, when we were young.”

  “Yes, much the same. It would seem that no one can learn about machine-guns without being butchered.”

  * * *

  I have witnessed a rather amusing incident, but at the same time it made me get up on my hind legs and bark.

  There is a little, fat American major who is supposed to be in charge of the U.S.A. Bearer Companies, but he has been spending his time in rending down huts and re-erecting them elsewhere. Fairfax and I are sitting outside the mess-tent after tea in the shade of the poplars, for it is hot weather, when Major Bullard appears on the horizon. He is in his shirt sleeves, with the stub of a cigar stuck in the corner of a rather truculent mouth, and a soft hat on the back of his head. He is slightly bandy-legged, a stocky, bustling little botch of a man. Even his hair is aggressive.

  I hear Fairfax say, “Here comes the wind in the willows, Stephen.”

  I happen to know that Major Bullard has shown a sudden interest in the scheme of evacuation. He blew into the orderly-room tent this morning and announced to us that he proposed to go over the ground in person. And what about a cicerone? Fairfax had suggested that he should take one of his own officers, as most of them had been taken over the ground and were familiar with the collecting posts and routes of evacuation.

  I may remark that the orderly-room tent is within ten yards of the mess-tent, and that our staff can hear all that Major Bullard chooses to say to my colonel.

  He pulls up in front of us, and with his legs well apart and his tummy stuck out, he removes the cigar stump from between his lips, spits, and addresses Fairfax:

  “Wal, sir, I’ve been over the ground and I guess your scheme’s all wrong.”

  There are degrees and varying shades of candour, and if there is one man to whom I would wish courtesy to be shown it is to Fairfax. I look at him quickly. He is smiling, as though gently amused.

  “Is that so, Major Bullard?”

  The American is chewing his cigar. He waggles his tummy at us, and I am moved to sudden ironical politeness. I get up, and offer him my chair. He takes it without a word, spreads his legs, and protrudes his tummy. I notice his coarse blunt fingers and the fatness of his calves.

  “You’ve got it all wrong, sir, yep.”

  Fairfax gives me a whimsical look.

  “Would you mind fetching a map, Brent?”

  I go to the orderly tent for a map. I have been over the ground myself and made myself completely familiar with all the details of the scheme. I come back and spread the map across Fairfax’s knees.

  “I would like to hear your criticisms, Major Bullard.”

  The American spits. He says that maps don’t interest him, and that, as a pragmatist, he prefers to use his own eyes.

  “Your transportation will fall down. And your collecting posts are all wrong. Looks almost as though you were shy of shell fire. Your posts ought to be nearer the line.”

  Fairfax’s voice is silky and tired.

  “What do you suggest?”

  Major Bullard makes a stabbing gesture with the stump of his cigar.

  “I want twenty Ford trucks up by that place, Yeoman’s Farm.”

  “Twenty Ford ambulances?”

  “Yep. I tell you that if one American wounded soldier is left lying out, the American people will want to know why.”

  But I can’t stand any more of this. I take the map from Fairfax’s knees, spread it on the grass, and kneel down.

  “Where do you expect to get your Ford ambulances from? Do you think they breed like lice?”

  “We’ve got to get ’em, Lootenant.”

  “Good. Suppose we indent for twenty Ford ambulances. Suppose we receive them. Now you say you want them up at Yeoman’s Farm?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just look at the map a moment. Do you see that point there?”

  He squats unwillingly and looks.

  “Yep.”

  “Those are cross-roads. The only road from Yeoman’s Farm joins them. Things have been pretty quiet here, Major Bullard. Do you know what happens to cross-roads when a stunt is on?”

  He glares at me.

  “What?”

  “They are shelled to blazes. All your nice little Fords would be about five hundred yards from the reserve line. Not one of them would get back over those cross-roads.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “I am. You wait until you have seen a little shelling, and then you may realize that the results one gets are only a proportion of what one plans for. You’d have all your Ford ambulances boxed in and useless in the first half hour. And most of them would be knocked out.”

  His face has gone purple.

  “I’d have boys on those trucks who’d drive through hell.”

  I say quietly, “Please don’t be silly. Probably those cross-roads would just be a botch of shell-holes. Your brave boys couldn’t very well carry their ambulances over the craters, could they?”

  He gets up, straddles, and glares at me.

  “See here, colonel, this lootenant of yours may be some buck, but I’m not standing for insults.”

  Fairfax is smiling.

  “There isn’t any lieutenant present, sir. Major Brent holds the same rank that you do.”

  Bullard glances at my sleeve.

  “Ain’t that a pip?”

  “No, it’s a crown, Major Bullard. You are confusing a crown with a star.”

  I quote the case of Major Bullard, because it is exceptional, and a good example of professional arrogance, for Bullard happens to be a regular soldier. He is the only American with whom we quarrel, for whatever some of their officers may think of our strategy, they are courteous and restrained in expressing their opinions. But it is evident that they are a little sceptical as to the aggressive spirit of the English army, and though they respect us as trench fighters they appear to suspect that we are not sufficiently fierce and ruthless in attack. I gather that it is impossible to make them believe that even after a heavy bombardment a mass of infantry cannot smash bull-headed through the enemy’s defensive system. They appear to think that they can do it, and I suppose their confidence is the faith of strong and eager youth in the very splendour of its undisillusioned strength.

  Unless the German morale cracks badly, this New York division may discover in its baptism of blood that we English are not senile.

  Orders have come to us to rejoin the 81st. We are to hand over our motor ambulances to the Americans, but not our drivers. We entrain at a siding not far from Poperinghe, and detrain at Doullens. The 81st Division is concentrated in the area east of Doullens. We are in a shabby village that has suffered in patches from the war, but like the curate’s egg is good in bits. Our M.T. sergeant and his drivers go off to Abbeville to collect new ambulances. Le Mesnil is not fifteen miles from Abbeville, but the realist in me resists the temptation to ask for two days’ French leave. I have wakened from that dream, and one does not dream the same dream twice.

  * * *

  I have seen two of our reconstituted battalions route-marching through this country. The men are very young, but they look good boys, and they march with their tails up, and with a jocund swagger. I am pleased, and I am proud. I do not want the Americans to have all the garlands and the glory.

  * * *

  Things are going well. Is it that we have at last learnt to handle and co-ordinate all the complex forces that must be merged into the concerto of the offensive? It is like a vast orchestra, with the tramp of feet for an underchant. I am beginning to feel myself to be more part of this English host, and to dream other dreams of England. It is we who are dealing the Germans these hammer blows. Rightly do they call us stubborn swine. Four months ago we were fighting for our lives. The
transformation is amazing.

  * * *

  We have moved to the Old Somme country, and the Boches are back in the Hindenburg Line. This horrible wilderness is like a country of ghosts. It may not smell of the dead, but the stigmata of death and horror are everywhere. We are camped close to Delville Wood, and I explore that ghastly place. Strange how Nature heals things, and is beginning to cover with green scrub the filthy and cruel insanities of man. The very earth has been disembowelled, and the wreckage that still lies about is sinister and horrible.

  * * *

  While wandering about among the brushwood I come across the mouth of an old deep dug-out. It is covered by a rusty sheet of corrugated iron, and someone has chalked on a board “Keep Out.”

  What horror or devilry still lurks below, rotting corpses or some treacherous mechanism left as a booby-trap by the Boche?

  This setting of traps by the Germans is, I think, one of the most beastly things one will remember against them. There is a little, malignant spitefulness about it that is despicable.

  The Hindenburg Line. I cannot believe that we contemplate attacking it. Perhaps this Somme country has depressed me, and I feel that the Germans can say to us, “Thus far, and no farther.” That immensely strong position lies like fate across the horizon of our hopes. If we attack, it will be the supreme test, and I have a horrible fear that we shall be bloodily repulsed, and that another illusion may be shed. Nothing that has happened yet is of supreme significance. Probably, the Germans are repeating the manœuvre of March, 1917.

  * * *

  Gibbs is back from leave. He says that the prevailing opinion at home seems to be that we dare not attack the Hindenburg Line, and that if Haig attempts it and fails, there will be a savage outcry, and he will be broken.

  Rumour has it that the politicians are funking.

  I feel rather a little, mean fellow when I think of the crisis Haig has to face. What right have I to judge or to criticize? Surely, no man was ever faced with a more damnable and bitter dilemma than Haig. If he dares the throw and wins, will not his choice be recorded as one of the most courageous acts in history?

  How easy it is to be a critic when one risks nothing, not even the seat of one’s trousers!

  * * *

  We are moving up. There is a feeling of excitement vibrant in the air.

  One sees tanks on the skyline, crawling along like huge slugs.

  I have not seen a German ’plane for days, or any sign of a scrap in the air. We seem to be the masters of the sky.

  * * *

  I understand that the great gamble is to be dared. Rankin comes to tea with us, and his eyes are burning. Americans and Australians are ahead of us. If they smash through, our Division is to follow up and exploit the rupture.

  The Americans are the same crowd whom we worked with near Kemmel. How will they fare? At last, Major Bullard will be confronted with reality in the shape of shell fire.

  * * *

  Please God, may my courage endure through this supreme crisis.

  We hear that the 201 F.A. are to be the forward ambulance, but that we are to reinforce them with two officers and bearers.

  Mean beast that I am, I wonder whether the choice will fall on the others. Fairfax and his remaining officers are to staff the main dressing-station.

  This skulking selfishness disgusts me. I go to Fairfax and ask him if I may be one of the officers detailed for duty with the 201 F.A.

  He says, “No, Stephen.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  “Seconds in command are precious. I am sending Carless and Potter.”

  Beast that I am, I am conscious of mean relief.

  * * *

  I suppose history is an epitome of man’s strange passion to be other than he is. And why this urge? As a savage he will daub himself with paint and wear stolen feathers. Sex display? But take the case of a man marooned upon an island. To whom would he display himself? To the birds and the beasts? Would he invent some ritual to impress upon these other creatures the marvellous and godlike otherness of his manhood? But from externals man passes to internals. He must strut before his secret self, dress his soul in illusions, talk with God in his garden. Must man fool himself or die, or become, because of the curse of self-consciousness, even lower than the beasts? I suppose these illusions have become as necessary to us as our clothes, and we dare not shed them and look upon the nakedness of our little, lusting, greedy, fearful selves.

  But why this passion to transcend the flesh? Is there some esoteric significance in the urge? Is man driven by it to postulate yet another illusion, God? We build temples to house a mystery that we do not and cannot understand.

  St. George for England!

  The British Army has broken the Hindenburg Line. Colonel Rankin comes to us with the news. It seems to have been a sticky business, and we were threatened with a bloody repulse, but an English Territorial Division, the 46th, performed a signal feat of arms. They had to attack across the canal, and their infantry, fitted out with life-saving jackets from the leave boats, swam the canal and broke the Boche line. It seems to be a case of the desperate and forlorn hope succeeding, and giving us victory in the very face of defeat.

  Hats off to the 46th Division!

  * * *

  We are lying about waiting in a grassy wilderness seamed with old trenches. Just south of us the grotesque and distorted ruins of a sugar factory break the skyline. The weather is golden and serene, and the strange, sinister distances ahead of us look suspiciously peaceful.

  We hear wild rumours. Something has not gone according to plan.

  Fairfax, who has been to Brigade Headquarters, comes back with the news.

  The American Division, who attacked ahead of us, exploited their theory of the mass stampede. They went forward with the impetuosity of young men in a hurry, but omitted to mop up the Boche who had gone to earth in the great tunnel near Bonny. An extraordinary situation arose. The Americans were trapped between the Boche front and reserve lines, and the Australians, who followed, were badly shot up, but managed to dig the Yankees out.

  We hear that they have been decimated.

  I wonder where Major Bullard is, and whether he has learnt to appreciate the crude realities of shell and machine-gun fire?

  * * *

  We are on the move. Those fierce fighters, the Australians, have pushed on, and here, too, the Hindenburg Line is ours. I hear that only one—and minor—defensive line exists, and if we can force it we shall have the Germans in open country.

  Ye gods, what great days!

  * * *

  I have seen some of the American dead, hundreds and hundreds of them laid out in rows in a little valley, big, fine men. I shall never forget one particular body, that of a huge fellow. He lies with his chest thrust out, and his head drawn back, and his whole face is black and swollen.

  * * *

  We are in a ruined village for the night. It is a most eerie place, and terror and death still seem to hang in its hollow spaces. Our home is a German dressing-station built of wood like a chalet, beautifully neat and efficient. They must have left it in a hurry, for drugs and oddments of dressing are lying about, and there is blood on the floor. The place smells insufferably stuffy, and I push open a window glazed with greased paper at the back of the main room, and discover below it a little pile of amputated legs and arms!

  Good God! I cannot stomach the place, and I get a stretcher and sleep out in a derelict garden.

  * * *

  Potter and Carless have gone up with two bearer sections to reinforce the 201 F.A. Potter is an extraordinary person. He marched off with a kind of sheen on his face like a man going to be married.

  The 81st Division attacked at dawn behind tanks and a creeping barrage. It is the first time many of these youngsters have fought, and they have fought with such effect that we have lost the division. They seem to have gone through the Boche line like buckshot through paper. In the course of the day they have advanced nearly eight
miles, and we hear that one of our brigades, which is pretty fresh, is to attack again to-night. Casualties have been extraordinarily light. The 201 F.A. have been able to deal with them, and we have orders not to open out, but to move up and establish ourselves in a village named Droumont. We look up the place on the map, and realize that Droumont must be beyond the old battle zone.

  We move about sunset. There is a curious stillness everywhere. Just when night has fallen we pass through the dark ruins of a village that smells most horribly. The Boche bombed the Australian transport here a few nights ago, and the village is full of dead horses. Poor beasts! Man has indeed involved them in his messy tragedy.

  I gather that the country is very flat here, and that we are marching between fields. The darkness grows less intense, and there is a pallor in the eastern sky that suggests the moon or burning villages. As for shell fire, it does not exist, so far as we are concerned, and our own guns are slamming away rather disjointedly in the distance. We have been marching for two hours, and I am with Fairfax at the head of our column when we see the dim shapes of houses immediately ahead of us. This must be Droumont.

  I am aware of white walls and solid, unbroken roofs, and I hear Fairfax exclaim:

  “Look there, Stephen!”

  He is pointing at a window. It is open, and a white, filmy substance is waving gently to and fro. Curtains. How strange to see curtains! There must be French civilians in Droumont.

  We come to a little open Place, and in one corner of it a window is illuminated. We halt the men and go across to the house with the lighted window. The door is open and we walk in, and see a couple of Frenchwomen and a very old man sitting round the stove. They stare at us with strange, impassive, pallid faces. Freedom and security have come to them, but they look like people who have been drugged by long misery, and who have not the heart to smile.