The Red Horizon Part 17

On the noon following the journey to the village I was sent back to the Keep; that night our company went into the firing trench again. We were all pleased to get there; any place was preferable to the block of buildings in which we had lost so many of our boys. On the night after our departure, two Engineers who were working at the Keep could not find sleeping place in the dug-outs, and they slept on the spot where I made my bed the first night I was there. In the early morning a sh.e.l.l struck the wall behind them and the poor fellows were blown to atoms.

For three days we stayed in the trenches, narrow, suffocating and damp places, where parados and parapet almost touched and where it was (p. 176) well-nigh impossible for two men to pa.s.s. Food was not plentiful here, all the time we lived on bully beef and biscuits; our tea ran short and on the second day we had to drink water at our meals. From our banquette it was almost impossible to see the enemy's position; the growing gra.s.s well nigh hid their lines; occasionally by standing tiptoed on the banquette we could catch a glimpse of white sandbags looking for all the world like linen spread out to dry on the gra.s.s.

But the Germans did not forget that we were near, pipsqueaks, rifle grenades, bombs and bullets came our way with aggravating persistence.

It was believed that the Prussians, spiteful beggars that they are, occupied the position opposite. In these trenches the dug-outs were few and far between; we slept very little.

On the second night I was standing sentry on the banquette. My watch extended from twelve to one, the hour when the air is raw and the smell of the battle line is penetrating. The night was pitch black; in ponds and stagnant streams in the vicinity frogs were chuckling. Their hoa.r.s.e clucking could be heard all round; when the star-sh.e.l.ls flew up I could catch vague glimpses of the enemy's sandbags and the line (p. 177) of tall shrapnel-swept trees which ran in front of his trenches. The sleep was heavy in my eyes; time and again I dozed off for a second only to wake up as a sh.e.l.l burst in front or swept by my head. It seemed impossible to remain awake, often I jumped down to the floor of the trench, raced along for a few yards, then back to the banquette and up to the post beside my bayonet.

One moment of quiet and I dropped into a light sleep. I punched my hands against the sandbags until they bled; the whizz of the sh.e.l.ls pa.s.sed like ghosts above me; slumber sought me and strove to hold me captive. I had dreams; a village standing on a hill behind the opposite trench became peopled; it was summer and the work of haying and harvesting went on. The men went out to the meadows with long-handled scythes and mowed the gra.s.s down in great swathes. I walked along a lane leading to the field and stopped at the stile and looked in. A tall youth who seemed strangely familiar was mowing. The sweat streamed down his face and bare chest. His s.h.i.+rt was folded neatly back and his sleeves were thrust up almost to the shoulders.

The work did not come easy to him; he always followed the first (p. 178) sweep of the scythe with a second which cropped the gra.s.s very close to the ground. For an expert mower the second stroke is unnecessary; the youngster had not learned to put a keen edge on the blade. I wanted to explain to him the best way to use the sharping stone, but I felt powerless to move: I could only remain at the stile looking on.

Sometimes he raised his head and looked in my direction, but took no notice of me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I called out to him but he took no notice. I tried to change my position, succeeded and crossed the stile. When I came close to him, he spoke.

"You were long in coming," he said, and I saw it was my brother, a youngster of eighteen.

"I went to the well for a jug of water," I said, "But it's dry now and the three trout are dead at the bottom."

"'Twas because we didn't put a cross of green rushes over it last Candlemas Eve," he remarked. "You should have made one then, but you didn't. Can you put an edge on the scythe?" he asked.

"I used to be able before--before the--" I stopped feeling that I had forgotten some event.

"I don't know why, but I feel strange," I said, "When did you come (p. 179) to this village?"

"Village?"

"That one up there." I looked in the direction where the village stood a moment before, but every red-brick house with its roof of terra-cotta tiles had vanished. I was gazing along my own glen in Donegal with its quiet fields, its sunny braes, steep hills and white lime-washed cottages, snug under their neat layers of straw.

The white road ran, almost parallel with the sparkling river, through a wealth of emerald green bottom lands. How came I to be here? I turned to my brother to ask him something, but I could not speak.

A funeral came along the road; four men carried a black coffin shoulder high; they seemed to be in great difficulties with their burden. They stumbled and almost fell at every step. A man carrying his coat and hat in one hand walked in front, and he seemed to be exhorting those who followed to quicken their pace. I sympathised with the man in front. Why did the men under the coffin walk so slowly? It was a ridiculous way to carry a coffin, on the shoulders. Why did they not use a stretcher? It would be the proper thing to do. I turned (p. 180) to my brother.

"They should have stretchers, I told him."

"Stretchers?"

"And stretcher-bearers."

"Stretcher-bearers at the double!" he snapped and vanished. I flashed back into reality again; the sentinel on the left was leaning towards me; I could see his face, white under the Balaclava helmet. There was impatience in his voice when he spoke.

"Do you hear the message?" he called.

"Right!" I answered and leant towards the man on my right. I could see his dark, round head, dimly outlined above the parapet.

"Stretcher bearers at the double!" I called. "Pa.s.s it along."

From mouth to mouth it went along the living wire; that ominous call which tells of broken life and the tragedy of war. Nothing is so poignant in the watches of the night as the call for stretcher-bearers; there is a thrill in the message swept from sentinel to sentinel along the line of sandbags, telling as it does, of some poor soul stricken down writhing in agony on the floor of the trenches.

For a moment I remained awake; then phantoms rioted before my (p. 181) eyes; the trees out by the German lines became ghouls. They held their heads together in consultation and I knew they were plotting some evil towards me. What were they going to do? They moved, long, gaunt, crooked figures dressed in black, and approached me. I felt frightened but my fright was mixed with curiosity. Would they speak?

What would they say? I knew I had wronged them in some way or another; when and how I did not remember. They came near. I could see they wore black masks over their faces and their figures grew in size almost reaching the stars. And as they grew, their width diminished; they became mere strands reaching form earth to heaven. I rubbed my eyes, to find myself gazing at the long, fine gra.s.ses that grew up from the reverse slope of the parapet.

I leant back from the banquette across the narrow trench and rested my head on the parados. I could just rest for a moment, one moment then get up again. The ghouls took shape far out in front now, and careered along the top of the German trench, great gaunt shadows that raced as if pursued by a violent wind. Why did they run so quickly? Were they afraid of something? They ran in such a ridiculous way that I (p. 182) could not help laughing. They were making way, that was it. They had to make way. Why?

"Make way!"

Two stretcher-bearers stood on my right; in front of them a sergeant.

"Make way, you're asleep," he said.

"I'm not," I replied, coming to an erect position.

"Well, you shouldn't remain like that, if you don't want to get your head blown off."

My next sentry hour began at nine in the morning; I was standing on the banquette when I heard Bill speaking. He was just returning with a jar of water drawn from a pump at the rear, and he stopped for a moment in front of Spud Higgles, one of No. 4's boys.

"Mornin'! How's yer hoppin' it?" said Spud.

"Top over toe!" answered Bill. "Ow's you?"

"Up to the pink. Any news?"

"Yer 'aven't 'eard it?"

"What?"

"The Brigadier's copped it this mornin'."

"Oo?"

"Our Brigadier." (p. 183)

"Git!"

"'S truth!"

"Strike me pink!" said Spud. "'Ow?"

"A stray bullet."

"Stone me ginger! but one would say he'd a safe job."

"The bullet 'ad 'is number!"

"So, he's gone west!"

"He's gone west!"

Bill's information was quite true. Our Brigadier while making a tour of inspection of the trenches, turned to the orderly officer and said: "I believe I am hit, here." He put his hand on his left knee.

His trousers were cut away but no wound was visible. An examination was made on his body and a little clot of blood was found over the groin on the right. A bullet had entered there and remained in the body. Twenty minutes later the Brigadier was dead.