On the right of the British line Part 6

We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.

The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.

The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.

CHAPTER IX

DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME

CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. Pa.s.sING THROUGH THE GUNS

On Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish, and we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a mystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders are given to get out.

The difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier is that in the former case you choose your time of departure or arrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most unearthly hour is selected for you.

We arrived at Corbie at 2 A.M. Not that we knew it was Corbie at the time, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is p.r.o.nounced in the way it is spelled, and that relieves one of a sense of uneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you p.r.o.nounce the names of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior knowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find a new p.r.o.nunciation.

However, we detrained onto the line. The night was as black as pitch.

Sleepy soldiers, struggling with their equipments, dropped out of the carriages; and after a great deal of shouting we got into some kind of formation, and the long column slowly moved off into the night.

I dropped into position in the rear of the column, feeling very tired, and wondering where I should find a place to sleep. The long column wended its way through narrow streets and along cobbled roads, and gradually seemed to melt into mysterious doorways under the guiding influence of quartermaster sergeants.

This process went on until I suddenly realised that the whole column had disappeared, and I was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3 A.M. in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest notion of where I was, or where my billet was. I walked a little farther down the street, and being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost decided to lie in the street until the morning, when I tumbled across Farman, Chislehirst, and Day following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to an unknown billet.

The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water had been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The floor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep.

Next morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the fruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with the thought that I was preventing waste.

It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down in a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday newspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was feeling lazy.

I was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place that seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the sound of the guns could be heard in the distance.

I had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle.

"What are you filling your water-bottle for?" I asked.

"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off."

"Good Lord! Who told you that?"

"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down."

I never had such a scramble in my life. With an appet.i.te oversatisfied with apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile away in all sorts of holes and corners--to move out of the village in twenty minutes.

It's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. And at five minutes past two the whole brigade was moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme.

Our destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we rested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley--there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate.

Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the afternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a distance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we were soon to march towards the storm.

Death Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break upon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they biting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man.

Everything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes.

To-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after?

The following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of sh.e.l.l-holes, we arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of our guns of all sizes were ma.s.sed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row; and every gun was being worked as hard as possible.

A bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we were halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was ma.s.sed and belching forth its concentrated fury.

As darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the question; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground silenced by wonder and bewilderment.

What was happening over yonder where those sh.e.l.ls were dropping? What was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 49-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; all belching and flas.h.i.+ng; all concentrating in a stupendous effort to pound some part of the German line into confusion.

Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look upon this sight!

This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons.

They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.

The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their homes, if those guns fail.

What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in England?

No! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our munition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own sons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and their lives.

Throw down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and Trones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the protection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?

If those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave their tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England, whom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as necessary for the success of the war, throw down their tools, they are only called strikers.

The crime is the same; the punishment should be the same.

CHAPTER X

ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME

FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT

Late that evening orders came to move into the trenches on the far slope of the Valley of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches everywhere, while we groped around without knowing where the trenches led to, or the position of the German lines.

We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of our position and mystery of those ma.s.sed guns, thundering their wrath into the darkness of the night, caused a tension which defied any desire to sleep.

What was the meaning of it all? What was happening over yonder, where the iron of England's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing?

What was happening over there? Would we receive a similar reply? The signs were significant: we were at last on the Somme; we were in for it with a vengeance.