"I know whom you mean," answered a private of the R.A.M.C. "He got it that bombing-stunt a few months ago. It was b.l.o.o.d.y awful too--the worst thing I've ever been in. I was standing next to him when the first one exploded. He flopped down and lay flat on the ground, but I rushed away into the fields with a lot of others. When it was all over we went back and heard the wounded crying out in a way that was dreadful to hear.

This fellow was still lying on the ground by the duckboards, trembling all over and paralysed with fear. We went to help the wounded, but he was in such a state that he could not come with us, so we left him behind. There was an inquiry afterwards and _we_ got into a frightful row for running away. He got the M.M. for sticking to his post!"

VII

THE GERMAN PUSH

"What madness there is in this arithmetic that counts men by the millions like grains of corn in a bushel.... A newspaper has just written about an encounter with the enemy: 'Our losses were insignificant, one dead and five wounded.' It would be interesting to know for whom these losses are insignificant? For the one who was killed?... If he were to rise from his grave, would he think the loss 'insignificant'? If only he could think of everything from the very beginning, of his childhood, his family, his beloved wife, and how he went to the war and how, seized by the most conflicting thoughts and emotions, he felt afraid, and how it all ended in death and horror.... But they try to convince us that 'our losses are insignificant.' Think of it, G.o.dless writer! Go to your master the Devil with your clever arithmetic.... How this man revolts me--may the Devil take him!"

(ANDREYEFF.)

Throughout the winter one question above all others was discussed by the few who took an interest in the war: "What were the Germans going to do?" It was clear that they had been able to withdraw many divisions from their Eastern Front. Would they be numerically equal or superior to the Allies on the Western Front?

On the whole we were of opinion that, whatever happened, our positions would prove impregnable, although we observed with some astonishment that there were no extensive trench systems or fortified places behind our lines. I doubted whether the Germans would even attempt to break through--I thought they would merely hold the Western Front and throw the Allies out of Macedonia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia.

The winter was over and the fine weather had set in. For several months we had been working in a wood-yard and saw-mills. Our lives had become unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our dreariness. The hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. I often contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the mild sunshine. At times I was so filled with the sense of physical well-being, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and colour, that I even forgot the war.

At the bottom of the wood-yard was a little stream, and on the far bank cl.u.s.ters of oxlips were in bloom. Here we would lie down during the midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. It seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. Moreover, it was rumoured that leave was going to start. How glorious it would be to spend a sunny May or June in England!

Once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds of the yard. As a rule, I was filled with impatience and irritation at having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. One day, when we were lined up between two large huts, a deep Yellow Brimstone b.u.t.terfly came floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.

I held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "I _will_ enjoy this lovely day to the full. When we get back to camp I will do without the repulsive army fare, I will dine at the St. Martin and buy a bottle of the best French wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. And then I'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there I'll lie all the evening and dream or read a book."

The whistle sounded. It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of long gra.s.s and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping of cicadas and gra.s.shoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.

Before the war--before the war--I repeated the words to myself. They conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost for ever. But I _wouldn't_ think about it. I _would_ enjoy the present.

But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost their souls, began to rea.s.sert itself.

But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end--I would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again, calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach the little village, the main street winding between white houses and flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask: "Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the war. My dream had vanished.

But I _would_ make the best of things. I _would_ enjoy the immediate present--was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?

Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type--a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches.

The tender green of the gra.s.s was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes.

The cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight.

I abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out before me and forgot the war once again.

And then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia coloured ma.s.s rose towering out of the ground. There was a rending, deafening, double thunder-clap that seemed to split my head. For a moment I was dazed and my ears sang. Then I looked up--the black ma.s.s was thinning and collapsing. The cow had disappeared.

I walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. All the men had left the sheds and were flocking into the road. Some were strolling along in leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some looked anxious, and some were very pale.

We crossed the road and the railway. Then, traversing several fields, we came to a halt and waited. We waited for nearly an hour, but nothing happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard.

Some of us walked to the spot where the sh.e.l.l had burst. There was a huge hole, edged by a ring of heaped-up earth, and loose mould and gra.s.sy sods lay scattered all round. Here and there lay big lumps of bleeding flesh. The cow had been blown to bits. The larger pieces had already been collected by the farmer, who had covered them with a tarpaulin sheet from which a hoof protruded.

The next day, at about the same hour, the dark cloud again rose from the ground and the double explosion followed. We again abandoned the yard and waited in the field. But this time there were several further sh.e.l.l-bursts. No dull boom in the distance followed by a long-drawn whine, but only the earth and smoke thrown darkly up and then the deafening double detonation.

The next day more sh.e.l.ls came over, and the next day also.

The big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many places. No damage of "military importance" had been done. Not even a soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.

At night the sky was alive with the whirr of propellers, and sh.e.l.ls whistled overhead and burst a long way off.

One Sunday, toward the end of March, when we had a half-holiday, I walked up the hill that was crowned by a large monastery and sat down on the slope by a group of sallows. They were in full bloom. A swarm of bees and flies were buzzing round. Peac.o.c.k and Tortoisesh.e.l.l b.u.t.terflies were flitting to and fro. The sunlight filtered down through the bluish haze. I rested and let an hour or two slip by. Then I got up and crossed a little brook and strolled along a narrow path that wound its way through a copse. The ground was starred with wood-anemones, oxlips, violets, cuckoo-flowers, and in damp places with green-golden saxifrage.

I came to a small cottage that had pots of flowers in every window. I sat down while a hospitable old woman made coffee and chattered volubly in Flemish. Another soldier arrived soon after. Had I heard the news?

The Germans had broken through on the Somme and had captured Bapaume. I asked him if he had seen it in print. No, he had heard it from an A.S.C.

driver. He hoped it wasn't true, but he feared it was.

I returned to camp full of suppressed excitement.

Something was wrong. The sh.e.l.ling of the back-areas continued; air-raids became more and more frequent. These were ominous signs.

Then the newspapers arrived. The Somme front had collapsed. The Fifth Army was in full retreat. The Germans had taken Bapaume and Peronne and were threatening Amiens.

Had I been living in Germany during the war I would have felt a powerful tendency to defend the cause of the Allies, to excuse their misdeeds, to overrate their ability, while being highly critical and censorious of every German shortcoming.

A nation at war is a mob whose very blatancy, injustice and cruelty drive one to hatred and opposition. The enemy mob seems less detestable because it is out of sight and one thinks almost involuntarily: "It cannot be as bad as our own."

I could not bear to hear a victory joyfully announced. The jubilation and the self-glorification of the crowd filled me with loathing, and I could only think of the intensified slaughter and misery that are the price of every victory. They who pay the price, they alone have the right to rejoice, but they do not rejoice. The German mob revealed its depravity when it hung out flags in the streets to celebrate the first German victories. And, when the first battle of Cambrai was won, London jeered at the bereaved and mocked the dead by ringing the joy-bells.

Every genuine patriot is called a traitor in his own country. But patriotism, however genuine, is a thing that must be surmounted. There is only one good that war can bring to a nation--defeat. A patriot, loving his own country, would therefore wish his country defeat in war.

But he who has surmounted his patriotism and has attained complete impartiality would not selfishly claim the only benefit of war entirely for his own country, but would desire all to share it alike, and would therefore wish defeat for every warring nation.

If a horde of British and a horde of German soldiers engage in mutual butchery, and if the maimed, broken remnants of the British horde have just enough order left to drive back the remnants of the German horde, leaving innumerable dead and wounded and for ever darkening the lives of countless friends and wives--in other words, if the British army wins what our infamous Press would call a "glorious victory"--then all that is evil in the life of the nation is encouraged and justified. It is then that the diplomatists who lied and schemed to bring on the monstrous event, that all the politicians who exploit and foster the nation's madness and misery to enhance their own reputations, that those who batten on the slaughter, and that those who glorify the carnage at a safe distance and fight the enemy with their lying tongues, are justified. They all are justified. But if, instead of victory, there is defeat, then they tremble lest they should be disgraced and lose their places, lest they should be victims of a disillusioned people's anger, lest they should forfeit their plunder, lest they should be called to account for the lies with which they fooled the ma.s.ses. Defeat is the defeat of evil, victory is the victory of evil.

A second batch of papers arrived. The German advance was continuing. The British reverse was becoming catastrophic. At first I felt a kind of grimness, and then I was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of the war might be near. We might not have a good peace, but peace of any kind was preferable to war. The mendacious Press talked much about a "dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as a prolonged war.

But the immediate reality became too overwhelming. Grey mult.i.tudes were sweeping khaki mult.i.tudes before them. High-explosives, shrapnel, grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the living flesh and muscle and bone. Towns and villages were being turned into heaps of brick and wreckage. Hordes of old men, women, and children were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.

We went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now had something to talk about. Would the Germans reach the coast? If they did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. A general retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. We stood in groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.

One day we were returning from work and pa.s.sing through the village. A crowd of civilians was standing round the window of the Mairie, where a written notice was exposed. An old woman dressed in black was moaning, "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu." The '19, '20, and '21 cla.s.ses had been called up.

Then the German advance came to an end. A French army had arrived and saved the situation. The sh.e.l.ling of the back areas had ceased. The danger was over for a time.

Had the Germans a.s.sembled all their strength for one supreme attempt at breaking through the Western Front? Or was it only the beginning of a whole series of operations?

One morning, as we woke up, we heard the roar and rumble of a bombardment. We did not take much notice of it, for we had heard the sound so often.

We paraded, and marched off to work. The continuous roar gradually gave place to irregular, though frequent, outbursts of firing along the entire front.