The next day the sound seemed to have come nearer. Rumours began to circulate--it was said that Armentieres had fallen, that the Portuguese had been annihilated at Merville, that the British had counter-attacked and taken Lille.

Rations, newspapers and letters were delayed. Large bodies of troops pa.s.sed through the village. We got no definite or official news, and n.o.body had any clear notion of what was happening.

But the sound of firing grew louder and louder and our anxiety deepened.

There could no longer be any doubt about it--the Germans were advancing on our front.

The sickening certainty transcended all other considerations. A few miles from us thousands were being slaughtered. I ceased to ponder the problems of failure and success. I forgot the politicians and was conscious of only one despairing wish, that the terrible thing might come to an end. Victory and defeat seemed irrelevant considerations. If only the end would come quickly--nothing else really mattered.

I often wondered what was in the minds of the other men. Many of them looked anxious, but on the whole they were normal in their behaviour.

They grumbled and quarrelled much as usual and talked rather more than usual--but so did I, in spite of my intense mental agitation.

The sound of firing grew louder.

We marched to an extensive R.E. park and saw-mill near a railway siding.

We had to dismantle the machinery and load everything of any value on to a train. For several hours five of us dragged a huge cylinder and piston along the ground. We toiled and perspired. We made a ramp of heavy wooden beams in front of the train and then we slowly pushed the iron ma.s.s into a truck. We went back and, raising a big fly-wheel on its edge and supporting it with a wooden beam under each axle, we rolled it painfully along, swaying from side to side.

Then there came the long-drawn familiar whine, and the black smoke arose behind some trees a hundred yards away and the thunder-clap followed. A jagged piece of steel came whizzing by and lodged in a stack of timber behind us.

We pushed the wheel up the ramp and returned to fetch heavy coils of wire, bundles of picks and shovels, sacks and barrels of nails. Our backs and shoulders ached, our hands and finger-tips were sore.

Another sh.e.l.l came whining over. It burst by a little cottage. Its thunder made our ears sing. The fragments of flying metal made us duck or scatter behind the stacks.

We worked until we almost dropped with sheer fatigue. Iron rods and bars for reinforcing pill-boxes, bags of cement, boxes of tools, parts of machinery, all went on to the train. Then we entered a big shed, where a number of tar-barrels stood in a row. We rolled them out and placed them by the timber stacks. We laid a pick beside each barrel so that it could be broached, the tar set alight, and the entire park destroyed at a moment's notice.

It was dark when we stopped work. We reached camp after an hour's wearisome marching. We waited in a long queue outside the cook-house.

The cooks served out the greasy stew as quickly as they could, but we were so tired and ill-tempered that we shouted abuse at them without reason and without being provoked, and banged our plates and tins. The war, the advance, the slaughter were forgotten. We were conscious of nothing but weariness, stiffness, and petty irritation.

The following day we marched to a ration dump. The wooden cases of rations were piled up in gigantic cubes, so that the entire dump looked like a town of windowless, wooden buildings. We formed one long file that circled slowly past the stacks, each man taking one case on to his shoulder or back and carrying it to the train. And so we circled round and round throughout the monotonous day.

In the evening I did not wait in the dinner queue, but went to the St.

Martin. It was kept by an old woman and her two daughters. They were tortured by anxiety:

"Les Allemands vont venir ici--de Shermans come heer?" they asked. But I knew no more than they did. I told them, against my own conviction, that the German advance would be held up, but they remained anxious. The uproar of the cannonade was louder than ever. All the windows of the building shook and rattled. The old woman muttered: "'Tis niet goet, 'tis niet goet," and the elder daughter echoed: "Oh, 'tiss no bon, 'tiss no bon."

Two British officers entered. They looked round and saw that private soldiers were sitting at the tables. But the St. Martin was the biggest estaminet in the village and provided the best wines and coffees, so they stood in the doorway, undecided what to do. They asked one of the girls if there was a restaurant for officers in the neighbourhood. She answered: "No--no restaurant for officeerss--you come heer--privates, zey no hurt you--privates, officeerss, all same."

Encouraged by these a.s.surances, one of the newcomers said to the other:

"Come on, let's sit down here and have a coffee--we needn't stop long."

All the smaller tables were occupied, but there was one long table that stretched across the room and only a few men were sitting at the far end of it. The officers sat down at the near end and ordered coffee. They seemed a little embarra.s.sed at first, but they soon began to talk freely to each other:

"I wonder if there's a war on in these parts--I hear the Huns have made a bit of a push."

"Curse the blighters--they'll mess up my leave, it's due in a week's time."

"Jolly good coffee, this! Here, Marie, bring us another two cups--der coop der caffay--that's right, isn't it?"

"Dat's right," said the girl, "you speak goot French--vous avez tout a fait l'accent parisien."

Suddenly her sister came running into the room, sobbing loudly:

"English soldier come round from Commandant--he tell us Shermans come--ve got to go 'vay at once, ve got to leave everysing--ve go 'vay and English troops steal everysing and sh.e.l.lss come and smash everysing and ve looss everysing."

The civilians of the village had received orders to leave immediately.

Through the window we could see groups of people standing in the street and talking together. They were greatly agitated.

The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. The elder daughter was packing a few things in a bundle. One of the officers asked: "What about our coffee?" but she took no notice. Her sister had gone out in search of further information.

She soon returned. Yes, they would all have to leave at once, but, if they liked to take the risk, they could come back to-morrow with a wagon, if they could get one, and fetch their belongings.

They were comforted. They knew where they would be able to get a wagon.

They would cart their stock and their household property away on the morrow. They would start another estaminet somewhere. They would suffer loss and inconvenience, but they would not be ruined--their valuable stock of wines would save them from that.

The bundle was made up and they prepared to leave. We paid our bill and went out into the street. Numbers of soldiers were straggling past. They looked wretched and exhausted. Their boots and puttees were caked with mud. They had neither rifles nor packs. Three men were lying up against a garden wall. We asked them for news. They could not tell us much, except that the Germans were still advancing.

"We was at d.i.c.kebusch when 'e started slingin' stuff over--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf wallop yer--umpteen of our mates got bleed'n' well biffed. We cleared out afore it got too 'ot."

Several famished "battle-stragglers" had entered our camp in order to beg for food. They sat round the cook-house and ate in gloomy silence.

In the adjoining field a number of tents had sprung up. Blue figures were moving in and out amongst them. The French had arrived.

The next morning, about breakfast time, the first sh.e.l.l burst near the camp--a short rapid squeal followed by a sharp report. The second sh.e.l.l burst a few minutes after, throwing up earth and smoke. A steel fragment came sailing over in a wide parabola and struck the foot of a man standing in the breakfast queue. He limped to the first-aid hut, looking very pale. When he got there, he had some difficulty in finding his wound, it was so slight.

We paraded and marched off. Several sh.e.l.ls burst in the neighbouring fields. We reached the ration dump and began to load the train. A civilian arrived with the newspapers. Our N.C.O.'s were powerless to stop the general stampede that surged towards the paper-vendor.

The Germans had advanced on a wide front ... Armentieres had fallen. The news was several days old and much might have happened since.

We went back to our work and discussed events. We were bullied and threatened with arrest, but we talked in groups while we carried cases of rations. Would we be involved in the advance? We might even be captured--that would at least be an experience and a change.

In the evening a few of us went to the St. Martin to see if the old woman and her daughter had been able to fetch their property away. We observed that the windows, where tinned fruit, chocolate, cakes, soap, postcards, and other articles used to be exhibited, had been cleared completely. We entered and found one of the girls in tears:

"All gone--all gone--I show you--you come into de cellar--all de wine gone--bottles all, all broken. English soldiers come in de night and take everysing 'vay--ve nussing left--it's de soldiers in de camp over zair in de field--zey plenty drunk dis morning--ve lose everysing--ve poor now."

Besides the windows, the till and the shelves had been cleared, and empty drawers and boxes had been thrown on to the floor. We went down into the cellar. All the cases had been opened and the stone floor was littered with empty and broken bottles. The girl began to sob again when she saw the ruin that had been inflicted:

"All gone, all gone--ve poor now."

"Why don't you complain to the Town Major?" one of us suggested.

"Complain?--vat's de use complain?--de Town Major, he nice man, he kind to us, but he no find de soldiers dat come, and if he find zem he punish zem but ve get nussing. Vat's de use punish zem if ve get nussing? All gone, ve poor now--oh, dis var, dis var--dis de second time ve refugeess--ve lose eversing 1914, ve come here from Zandvoorde and ve start again--ve do business vis soldiers, soldiers plenty money, ve do goot business, and now ve refugeess again and ve novair to go. If de Shermans come, ve do business vis de Shermans--but de sh.e.l.ls come first and ve all killed--ah, dis var, dis var! Vat's de use fighting? All for nussing! Var over, me plenty dance!"

We ascended the cellar stairs. The mother was in the main room, wiping her eyes. We said good-bye to her and her daughter, feeling ashamed of our uniforms, and walked out into the street.

A ma.s.s of French cavalry were galloping past. It was growing dark. The cannonade had become deafening. Over the town a few miles off there was a crimson glare in the sky.

A horde of civilians was thronging the main street of the village. Old men and women were carrying all that was left to them of their property on their backs. Others were pushing wheelbarrows heaped up with clothes and household utensils. Girls were carrying heavy bundles under their arms and dragging tired, tearful children along. White-faced, sorrowful mothers were carrying peevish babies. Great wagons, loaded with furniture and bedding, and whole families sitting on top, were drawn by lank and bony horses. A little cart, with a pallid, aged woman cowering inside, was drawn painfully along by a white-haired man. They pa.s.sed by us in the gathering gloom, and there seemed to be no end to these straggling mult.i.tudes of ruined, homeless people who were wandering westwards to escape the disaster that threatened to engulf us all.