The child understood, for there had been a Scottish regiment at St. Just.
“But monsieur has no—no petticoats.”
Palk roared.
“McVittie, man, ’ear that? You ain’t a man, nor yet a woman. Bloomin’ ’ermaphrodite! See-cie, mamselle, ’e ain’t quite growed up; they wear trarsers in Scotland till they’ve proved ’emselves men.”
“Shut up,” said McVittie; “it’s indelicate to suggest——”
“Suggest! There ain’t no bloomin’ newendoes abart me. Kilts, indeed! National dress—because the Scotties ’ave to scratch theirselves.”
“You shut up,” said McVittie, leaning over and cramming a handful of grass into his mouth.
But life in St. Just was not made up of lying in the orchard grass or fishing in the river, yet St. Just had its uses. It gave the men back from the trenches a sight of women and children, of little homes and gardens, and cattle feeding in green fields. This was a France in miniature, a land snatched from the Blond Beast, a something for which men might fight with a good conscience and a flash of chivalry. There was not a man who was not a better soldier spiritually for his month’s sojourn in that French village. He would leave it with a sweet smell in his nostrils, and the thought of those French women, children and old men sleeping and labouring in peace because of the rifles in the trenches.
And life was strenuous at St. Just. The 53rd Sussex had had a rough time during the winter; they had been brought back to rest, to make good their losses, and to recover their full physical fitness. There were all sorts of rumours in the air, whisperings of a great advance. The youth of England was in training—these soldiers of the New Armies who had yet to prove themselves in attack, and at St. Just the men of the 53rd lived like athletes—lean, brown, heart hardened, swift. It was no longer the patient sticking in the mud, but the wild leap forward—the rush of men who attack with bomb and bayonet. Men who had come out of the winter, haggard, bent, and listless, carried their heads with a new audacity, marched with a new swing.
“A damn fine crard!”
That was Corporal Palk’s verdict.
And so they were.
The spirit was splendid. From the very first Hammersly contrasted it with the melancholy that had dominated the Dardanelles. Nor was the contrast to be accounted for by the change in his own spirit. There was hope in France, faith, cheeriness, a grim optimism, an efficiency and keenness that were refreshing. These men were nearer home; they saw the things for which they were fighting—women, children, homes, fields, even the dogs. Some adventurous gentleman had not flung them raw and half-trained on a beach thousands of miles from home to fight—for what? Stamboul? The sight of an old peasant woman’s grey head and grateful eyes is more inspiring than the distant and imaginary glitter of Turkish minarets and domes. The theorist starts out on the presumption that the man with a rifle is always the same sort of man—an unvarying and known quantity wherever you put him and under all sorts of conditions. Of course, nothing could be more fatuous.
For the first time since he had worn khaki Hammersly began to realise that England was a great country. There was a giganticism here that awed and impressed him. He had glimpsed it at the port, on the lines, over the hill yonder where men swarmed like ants. Guns, and yet more guns, shells by the million, railways, motor lorries, mountains of stores and timber, new roads, new aerodromes, new villages. An immense and orderly purpose was being unfolded—the massed, mechanical effort of a great people. But behind the mechanism there was a soul—the soul of Britain, slow, obstinate, practical; a soul that was learning to be thorough after fifty years of casual and drifting complacency.
CHAPTER XXXIII
The 53rd were proud of their officers and in this pride lay the secret of the battalion’s efficiency. In a new and democratic army personality counts for much; men are judged on their merits, on their manners, on their attitudes towards each other. The New Army had no traditions behind it, save the tradition of British pluck; its officers came to it as did the men—mere citizens who had played team games, and never handled a rifle or given an order. The 53rd had but two Regular officers—the Colonel and the Quartermaster. All the rest were new men—country gentlemen, lawyers, undergraduates, a medical student or two, stockbrokers, artists, journalists, and the like. And the 53rd was proud of them. There had been no bullying and no swank, for the senior officers were gentlemen, and any raw youngster who had never been taught good manners, received his education when he joined the 53rd.
Captain Guest, who commanded D Company, the company to which Hammersly belonged, was typical of all that was best in the New Army. An old public schoolboy and a Cambridge man, he was “The Courteous Knight of the Cheerful Countenance”—a quiet, fairish fellow, with shrewd blue eyes, and a clear, vibrant voice. He was something of a dandy, but men never quarrel with an officer for being smart; they like it, provided that he knows his job. Guest was calmly but almost fanatically thorough. He made a point of knowing every man in his company, not only by name, but by character and capability. He never swore, but his discipline was perfect; it never crossed his mind that a man would ever question an order, and no man ever did. D Company saw the smile in his eyes and trusted him, and knew him as a devoted leader and friend.
The Second Lieutenant who commanded Hammersly’s platoon was known in D Company as “The Boy.” He may have been twenty, but he was the most serious and fatherly youth on earth; fresh-faced, grey-eyed, gravely going about his business, examining his men’s feet and teeth, seeing that they washed their socks and darned them; a most solemn and lovable child. In fact, the men loved him because he loved his platoon, and wanted it the smartest in the battalion and the cheeriest and the best led. And not a man among them but was keen, for fear of disappointing “The Boy.”
“Gorblimey,” said Corporal Palk, “I fancy I see ’im with tears in ’is eyes ’cos some of us were caught with dirty rifles when the Brig. ’appened to come ararnd. An’ the ’ole platoon snivvellin’ with shame! An’ I can see ’im puttin’ me to bed!”
With such officers anything is possible, and the other platoons and the other companies were almost equally well led. The C.O., an old Indian officer, hard and clean and kindly, had been christened “Old Coffeeberry.” There was something of the Bayard about him. He had a presence, fine manners, and a wonderful way with his juniors; when he gave a youngster a stiff job that youngster was envied; there was no grousing and no shirking.
Hammersly had been with the 53rd about three weeks, and was walking off to his billet after a parade had been dismissed, when his platoon sergeant shouted his name.
“Private ’ammersly——”
D Company’s parade ground was a cobbled space in front of the village church, a space surrounded by elm trees and gardens. Hammersly swung round.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“The S.M. wants you.”
Hammersly found the Company Sergeant-Major under one of the elms.
“Hammersly.”
“Sir.”
“You are to see Captain Guest at two o’clock to-day.”
“At the company office?”
“No, at his billet. White house in the garden opposite the inn.”
“Very good, sir.”
“That’s all.”
Hammersly, just a little bit anxious as to what his company officer wanted with him, reported punctually at two o’clock. An iron gate, hung between two brick pillars, opened into the garden of the white house, and from the gate a path paved with kidney stones and edged with box led straight to the porch. The house had a steep roof, and queer little dormer windows peering out of it. An old vine carried on stone pillars and oak beams made a rambling and pleasant shade along the front of this French house.
Captain Guest was sitting in a deck chair under the shade of this green-leaved loggia, a short briar pipe stuck in one corner of his mouth, and Punch on his knee. Hammersly saluted and stood straight and motionless before him.
“Ham
mersly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to have a little talk with you. You have served before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I happened to have heard about it, but that’s neither here nor there. Personally, I think you have done just the right thing. Do the other men know about you?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Nobody ever troubled to find out. Of course, I had to do a little fibbing.”
“Sound sense. I shall keep quiet about it. Mr. Brydon has reported very well of you.”
Hammersly flushed.
“Thank you, sir. I made a paltry ass of myself out there—lost my temper. I’m out to make good.”
Captain Guest’s blue eyes smiled up at him.
“That’s it; that’s the game; I’ll help you in any way I can. There’s no need for me to talk shop; we don’t like it. That’s all.”
Hammersly saluted.
“I shall follow you, sir—anywhere. Thank you very much.”
So that when D Company boasted about its Captain, a kind of glow came into Hammersly’s eyes. The love of man for man is a very fine and subtle thing, begetting strange heroisms and rare self-sacrifice. And Hammersly loved Guest; loved him for his clear, calm face, his straight and smiling eyes, his chivalry and thoroughness, for the way he carried his head, for his calm voice, even for the faultless care with which he put on his puttees. It was absurd and it was splendid, but war is both absurd and splendid, and there is nothing finer than the sexless love of man for man.
Then the 53rd was warned for the trenches, and the men smiled and joked tremendously, but most of them had grave eyes. For days a gigantic thunderstorm seemed to have been rolling away yonder without a moment’s cessation. It was one long reverberation, keeping the windows of the village of St. Just in a state of tremulous excitement. Camp rumours grow up like gourds in the night, but every officer and man guessed that he was to face something grimmer than a rumour. Those thudding, hammering guns that never ceased firing, filled the men’s stomachs with queer, adventurous qualms.
“Old Fritz is gettin’ ’ell!”
“And there won’t be no long spoon for us, you bet!”
Pierce Hammersly spent the last evening at St. Just in a solitary country ramble. He came off duty at five, and after tea in his billet with Lambourne and several others, he escaped alone and struck westwards across the fields into the yellow light of a perfect June evening. A letter from Janet had reached him that morning, and all through the day he had had no chance of reading it, for Hammersly still kept some of the more sensitive reserves and shynesses that are not understood by men of rougher fibre. So he took his way across the fields where the grass was knee deep and all bright with flowers, and up a long hill to a beech wood that was as solitary as he desired.
He lay down in some bracken on the crest of the hill where a clearing had been made in the wood some previous winter, and there, facing the evening sun, he opened and read Janet’s letter.
He had written to her a few days ago, telling her that they expected to be in the trenches within a week, and this letter of hers came as an answer. It seemed to him strangely and sacredly opportune—like a cup of wine and a proud glance of the eyes before his going out to battle. And that letter of hers made him strangely and splendidly happy. It was like brave music, very tender and courageous, breathing such a fire of pride and faith in him that he needs must kiss it devotedly, and put it away in his breast pocket, where it lay just over his heart.
He sat for a long while, watching the sun sinking towards the horizon and filling the valley below him with a fog of gold. A great calmness possessed him, even while he listened to the dull hammering of those distant guns. He had nothing to fear but his own fear, and his fear of it and his loathing of it were greater than his fear. For he was like a man dying to wipe off an insult; to prove himself a fine comrade, a soldier fit to follow such a man as Guest.
Of course, it would be hell over there; of course, he might never see Janet again. He knew the sort of ghastliness he might have to suffer, but he did not flinch from it in the spirit, even if some of the “flesh fear” remained.
CHAPTER XXXIV
All St. Just turned out to see the 53rd march away at six o’clock on an exquisite June morning. The battalion was going up to the Front by road, and the men were in full marching order, and looking very fit and brown, as they lined up in the main street. Dogs, children, girls, women, boys, old men, and even the cats crowded out to say good-bye. Many of the Tommies wore flowers in their caps, which was quite irregular, but a sensible C.O. approves of irregularities on certain psychological occasions when something more than discipline has to be considered. The Colonel knew what the battalion did not know—that these lads were marching to bear a very great ordeal, that half of them might be dead within a week.
The 53rd marched out of St. Just in column of fours, the Colonel riding at their head, the transport rumbling in the rear. The children and the dogs followed them for the best part of a mile, and then took leave of them at the top of a hill in a little cloud of dust. The 53rd covered seventeen miles that day, with tunics open at the throat and shirts unbuttoned, and not a man fell out. They bivouacked for the night in a field beside a farm, and Hammersly did two hours sentry-go under the stars, with the tumult of the distant guns a little louder in his ears.
Next day they covered another fifteen miles, and the countryside began to be brown with khaki. There seemed to be troops, camps, new roads, transport convoys, new railways, clearing-hospitals, bakeries, A.S.C. dumps everywhere. An immense and ordered energy became evident. Staff officers abounded. Great bodies of troops were moving forward, or resting under the shelter of the woods.
“What price the Big Push!”
The men of the 53rd were intensely interested and excited. Eyes looked grimmer, mouths more set.
“We’re for it, boys!”
“Are we down-’earted?”
“No.”
That night they bivouacked in a big wood, and the thunder of the guns seemed very near. They could see the flashes in the darkness. But the men were tired, and they slept on their ground-sheets, wrapped up in their great coats, so that the whole wood was full of the sound of heavy breathing.
The 53rd did not move off at once next morning; they lay in the wood, awaiting orders, and, as it turned out, they were to remain there all day. Yet all sorts of suggestive things happened. The C.O. and the Adjutant disappeared over the hill with a couple of Staff officers; there was an inspection of gas helmets and an inspection of rifles and emergency rations. The bombing officer appeared to be very busy, and the M.O. spent part of the afternoon examining the battalion’s feet. After tea the men were ordered to lie down and get what sleep they could; but they were to be ready to fall in at a moment’s notice. No man was to take his boots off, and that looked like business.
Hammersly had been asleep some hours when a whistle-call woke him. Men were tumbling up in the darkness and falling in upon the road. Here and there an officer’s electric torch flashed on sleepy faces; and the roll was called.
Hammersly never forgot that night march. They swung through deep black woods and across bleak hills, with their faces towards the intermittent glare of the great guns. A dozen more battalions were moving in the same direction, but the 53rd knew nothing of those other dim and plodding masses, or of the complex scheme which was in the process of being woven, and of which they formed but one brown thread. Yet the old soldiers among them were wise as to their destinations.
“Reliefs at dawn. We’ll be in the front line, boys, for breakfast.”
“Damn them guns,” said somebody. “Why don’t they kennel up for the night?”
A veteran rebuked the voice.
“Don’t you grumble at the guns. They’re our —— guns, by God, givin’ the Boches what we used to get. Hats off to Lloyd George.”
At midnight they halted and rested for half an hour, and then marched on again into the night.
The temper of the darkness began to change; it was no longer an impenetrable, mysterious expectancy, but a tense gloom that was full of invisible terror and grim happenings and an all-pervading uproar that seemed to keep the dark earth in a tremble. The 53rd were now in the midst of those great hidden howitzers that thudded and clanged and thundered like huge beasts hidden in their secret lairs. There were other sounds, too, sounds that were new to the recruits from overseas, but familiar enough to the older hands and to Pierce Hammersly. Once again he heard that rushing sound in the air, a sound that ended in a sullen, menacing “wumph,” the arrival and bursting of a high-explosive shell flung by the German heavy guns at those grumbling British howitzers that never ceased to fire through all the night.
“What’s that queer row, Prince?” whispered the man who marched beside him.
“Which row?”
“The thing like an express train with a collision at the end of it?”
“A German 5.9.”
“What—bursting over here?”
“Yes.”
One or two of these “crumps” landed within a hundred yards of the 53rd, and fragments went screeching overhead, making the new men duck and wince, but no one was hit. Pierce Hammersly kept his head up, and felt strangely and unexpectedly exhilarated. This huge confusion of sound, this gigantic drumming and hammering stirred his vitals as though he were listening to the vibrant crash of massed bands striking up a march. A trickle of excitement went down his spine. He carried his pride like a badge of honour, with Janet’s letter over his heart.
They were given another rest of half an hour, and “The Boy” went about among his men, wanting to know how their feet were standing it, and whether one or two men who had been sick at St. Just were any the worse for the long march.
“Sykes—where’s Sykes?”
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