Bullets & Billets

CHAPTER XXIX

GET­TING NEAR­ER----A LUGUBRI­OUS PAR­TY--STILL NEAR­ER--BLAZ­ING YPRES--OR­DERS FOR AT­TACK

[Il­lus­tra­tion: A]

Af­ter about an­oth­er twen­ty min­utes' march we halt­ed again. Some­thing or oth­er was go­ing on up the road in front, which pre­vent­ed our mov­ing. We stood about in the lane, and watched the shells burst­ing in the town. We were able to watch shells burst­ing clos­er be­fore we had been there long. With a screech­ing whis­tle a shell shot over our heads and ex­plod­ed in the field on our left. This was the sig­nal, ap­par­ent­ly, for shrap­nel to start burst­ing promis­cu­ous­ly about the fields in all di­rec­tions, which it did.

Al­to­geth­er the lane was an un­whole­some spot to stand about in. We were there some time, won­der­ing when one of the bursts of shrap­nel would strike the lane, but none did. Strag­gling, small groups of Bel­gian civil­ians were now pass­ing down the lane, driv­en out no doubt from some cot­tage or oth­er that un­til now they had man­aged to per­sist in liv­ing in. Mourn­ful lit­tle groups would pass, wheel­ing their to­tal world­ly pos­ses­sions on a bar­row.

Sud­den­ly we were moved on again, and as sud­den­ly halt­ed a few yards fur­ther on. With­out a doubt, stren­uous op­er­ations and com­pli­ca­tions were tak­ing place ahead. A few of the of­fi­cers col­lect­ed to­geth­er by a gate at the side of the lane and had a smoke and a chat. “I won­der how much longer we're go­ing to stick about here” some one said. “What about go­ing in­to that house over there and see if there's a fire?” He in­di­cat­ed a tum­bled down cot­tage of a fair size, which stood near­ly op­po­site us on the far side of the lane. It was al­most dark by now, and the wind made it pret­ty cold work, stand­ing and sit­ting about in the lane. Four of us crossed the road­way and en­tered the yard of the cot­tage. We knocked at the door, and asked if we might come in and sit by the fire for a bit. We asked in French, and found that it was a use­less ex­trav­agance on our part, as they on­ly spoke Flem­ish, and what a ter­ri­ble lan­guage that is! These were Flem­ish peo­ple--the re­al goods; we hadn't struck any be­fore.

They seemed to un­der­stand the signs we made; at all events they let us in­to the place. There was a dairy along­side the house be­long­ing to them, and in here our men were stream­ing, one af­ter an­oth­er, pay­ing a few cop­pers for a drink of milk. The wom­an serv­ing it out with a la­dle in­to their mess tins was keep­ing up a flow of com­ment all the time in Flem­ish. No­body ex­cept her­self un­der­stood a word of what she was say­ing. Hardy peo­ple, those dwellers in that cot­tage. Shrap­nel was drop­ping about here and there in the fields near by, and at any mo­ment might come in­to the roof of their cot­tage, or through the flim­sy walls.

We four went in­side, and in­to their main room--the kitchen. It was in the same old style which we knew so well. A large square, dark, and dingy room, with one of their pop­ular long stoves stick­ing out from one wall. Round this stove, drawn up in a wide cres­cent for­ma­tion, was a row of chairs with high backs. On each chair sat a man or a wom­an, dressed in ei­ther black or very dark clothes. No­body spoke, but all were star­ing in­to the stove. I wished, mo­men­tar­ily, I had stayed in the lane. It was like break­ing in on some weird sect--“Stove Wor­ship­pers.” One wouldn't have been sur­prised if, sud­den­ly, one mem­ber of the par­ty had re­moved the lid of the stove and thrown in a “grey pow­der,” or some­thing of the sort. This to be fol­lowed by flames leap­ing high in­to the air, whilst low-​toned monotonous chant­ing would break out from the as­sem­bly. Feast in hon­our of their god “Shrap­nel,” who was “an­gry.” I sup­pose I shouldn't make fun of these peo­ple though. It was enough to make them silent and lugubri­ous, to have all their coun­try and their homes de­stroyed. We sat around the stove with them, and of­fered them cigarettes. We talked to each oth­er in En­glish; they sat silent­ly lis­ten­ing and un­der­stand­ing noth­ing. I am sure they looked up­on all armies and sol­diers, ir­re­spec­tive of na­tion­al­ity, as a con­found­ed nui­sance. I am sure they wished we'd go and fight the mat­ter out some­where else. And no won­der.

We sat in there for a short time, and stepped out in­to the road again just in time to hear the or­der to ad­vance. We hadn't far to go now. It was quite dark as we turned in­to a very large flat field at the back of Ypres, right close up against the out­skirts of the town. Just the field, I felt sure, that a cir­cus would choose, if vis­it­ing that neigh­bour­hood.

The bat­tal­ion spread it­self out over the field and came to the con­clu­sion that this was where it would have to stay for the night. It was all very cold and dark now. We sat about on the great field in our great­coats and wait­ed for the field kitchens and ra­tions to ar­rive. As we sat there, just at the back of Ypres, we could hear and see the shells burst­ing in the city in the dark­ness. The shelling was get­ting worse, fires were break­ing out in the de­sert­ed town, and bright yel­low flames shot out here and there against the black­ened sky. On the ar­rival of the field kitchens we all man­aged to get some tea in our mess tins; and the rum ra­tion be­ing is­sued we were a lit­tle more for­ti­fied against the cold. We sat for the most part in great­coats and si­lence, watch­ing the shelling of Ypres. Sud­den­ly a huge fire broke out in the cen­tre of the town. The sky was a whirling and twist­ing mass of red and yel­low flames, and enor­mous vol­umes of black smoke. A tru­ly grand and aw­ful spec­ta­cle. The tall ru­ins of the Cloth Hall and Cathe­dral were al­ter­nate­ly sil­hou­et­ted or bright­ly il­lu­mi­nat­ed in the yel­low glare of flames. And now it start­ed to rain. Down it came, hard and fast. We hud­dled to­geth­er on the cold field and pre­pared our­selves to ex­pect any­thing that might come along now. Shells and rain were both falling in the field. I think a few shells, meant for Ypres, had rather over­shot the mark and had come in­to our field in con­se­quence.

I leant up as one of a tri­pod of three of us, my face to­wards the burn­ing city. The two oth­ers were my old pal, the pla­toon com­man­der at St. Yvon, and a sub­al­tern of one of the oth­er com­pa­nies. I sat and watched the flames lick­ing round the Cloth Hall. I re­mem­ber ask­ing a cou­ple of men in front to shift a bit so that I could get a bet­ter view. It poured with rain, and we went sit­ting on in that hor­ri­ble field, won­der­ing what the next move was to be.

At about eleven o'clock, an or­der­ly came along the field with a mack­in­tosh ground-​sheet over his head, and told me the Colonel wished to see me. “Where is he?” I asked. “In that lit­tle cot­tage place at the far cor­ner of the field, near the road, sir.” I rose up and thus spoilt our hu­man tri­pod. “Where are you go­ing 'B.B.'?” asked my St. Yvon friend. “Colonel's sent for me,” I replied. “Well, come back as soon as you can.” I left, and nev­er saw him again. He was killed ear­ly the next morn­ing; one of the best chaps I ev­er knew.

I went down the field to the cot­tage at the cor­ner, and, en­ter­ing, found all the com­pa­ny com­man­ders, the sec­ond in com­mand, the Ad­ju­tant and the Colonel. “We shall at­tack at 4 a.m. to-​mor­row,” he was say­ing. This was the mo­ment at which I got my _Frag­ment_ idea, “The push, by one who's been pushed!” “We shall at­tack at dawn!”

The Colonel went on to ex­plain the plans. We stood around in the se­mi-​dark­ness, the on­ly light be­ing a small can­dle, whose flame was be­ing blown about by the draught from the bro­ken win­dow.

“We shall move off from here at mid­night, or soon af­ter,” he con­clud­ed, “and go up the road to St. Julien.”

We all dis­persed to our var­ious com­mands. I went and got my sergeant and sec­tion com­man­ders to­geth­er. I ex­plained the com­ing op­er­ations to them. Sit­ting out in the field in the rain, the map on my knees be­ing oc­ca­sion­al­ly bright­ly il­lu­mi­nat­ed by the burn­ing city, I looked out the road to St. Julien.