Letters to Helen Part 6

_And the hare got there first!_

Inwardly I laughed with joy and relief. Thank goodness that little hare got away. Corporal Orchard took over the horses, and we went in amongst the wire, but we never found her. The weeds had grown tall, and were perfect cover for the poor wee beastie. I sometimes say what I think, but such views are naturally neither understood nor taken seriously.

And the Major, bless him! likes me to do this type of thing because he thinks it is good for me. "We must really try and teach you to be more of a sportsman, you know. Sporting instinct. What? Every Englishman should have it!" This all very good-humouredly, and I answer, laughing: "Aha, sir. You see I know better." Which merely stirs some jovial spirit to stand up and propose: "Gentlemen, fox-hunting!" You see?

_September 12._

The next act will shortly begin. We are all very hopeful. Certain signs.... Fritz very nervous. Of that there can be no doubt at all.

Prisoners betray it quite unwillingly. Poor Fritz! He comes to attention when we go up to him and ask him if he is fairly happy, which he is (with a smile) invariably. He talks good English, and wishes the war would end.

Some of our machine gunners, including Clare, were done in the other day, and they put up a biscuit tin, with their names pierced in with nail holes, to mark the spot. This war is the quaintest, most incongruous show.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GIRD TRENCH Gird Trench was only won after repeated attacks. It was the main German defence of GEUDECOURT. While this sketch was being made things were comparatively quiet. And the innumerable people living underground could get a little sleep.]

_September 15._

Zero hour has come and gone. The show is a peach. Fritz is scuttling back with us on his tail. We are to creep up, and as soon as Fritz is beyond his last line of trenches (which he jolly nearly is now) up and through we hope to go.

_September 20._

[Sidenote: TOWARDS GEUDECOURT]

We are long past Fritz's first line; past his second line; at his third line; and his fourth line he is wildly digging now--places for his M.G.'s wire, etc. But he's very, very hard put to it. We have almost all the high ground. Our guns are at it day and night. Trench warfare no longer exists. A few hastily dug holes, a few short lines of trench, mostly battered to pieces, and that's all. It's almost open fighting.

Even the infantry come up across the open. No communication trenches, nothing of that sort. The crump holes are continuous. There's scarcely an inch of ground that isn't a crump hole.

I was up in an interesting wood this morning with the Colonel. Now, this will give you some idea of how dislocated and above-ground everything is:

We wanted to go to a place the other side of the wood. When we reached the middle of the wood, where a new O.P. of ours has been established, Fritz put up a barrage on the edge of the wood. Very well, then. We just waited at the O.P. till the barrage was over, and then calmly walked out. The wood is only a few shattered stumps of trees, and the place where undergrowth once was is one continuous sea of earth thrown about in every conceivable shape, with dead Tommies and dead Fritzes lying side by side. So the wood isn't much cover, you can imagine.

On the far side of the wood is beautiful rolling country, but not green.

It's all brown, just a mess of earth. It's pitted with holes just like sand after a hailstorm. In the distance you can see real lovely trees, but nothing grows where the strafing is. Overhead the martins flicker and swoop, and starlings sail by in circling clouds, while the colossal noises crash and boom away merrily.

Ought I, perhaps, not to talk of these things? Does it worry you to think of crumps bursting and so on? But, really, it seems quite ordinary and in the day's work here. Men talk of crumps as you would talk of bread and b.u.t.ter. That is, perhaps, why letters from home that talk about homely things--cows and lavender and the new chintz--are so welcome.

Besides, good heavens! don't you know that there's not a man in France but knows that the best-beloved ones at home are having a far worse time than we are having here? Wet clothes? Mud? Sh.e.l.ls a-bursting, guns a-popping? Even a wound, perhaps? Pish! No one _thinks_ at all out here. There isn't time. Most of the people out here are perfectly happy and merry, really. The sort of "long-drawn-out-agony" touch is, I think, rare.

I'm writing this in a jolly Boche dug-out, all panelled and cosy.

Jezebel and Swallow and a new pack mare I've got are in a valley that's hardly ever touched, and in fine, all's well.

_September 24._

[Sidenote: TEAR Sh.e.l.lS]

Tear sh.e.l.ls or "lachrymatory sh.e.l.ls." They haven't been putting many over lately, apparently. But they put some over the other day, and they are so amusing that I must describe them to you.

The Colonel and I were up trying to find a "working-party" from the regiment. The regiment is sadly split up at present into various parties doing various jobs in various places, all unpleasant. Better than infantry work, but still unpleasant.

We rode up much closer than we have ridden before, and left the Colonel's orderly and Hale in a bit of a valley with Minotaur, Jezebel, Hob, and Tank. Tank is a new mare I've got. Hale was riding her, as I never take Swallow closer than I can help.

We dismounted in this small valley, and the Colonel's orderly and Hale were given orders to move if any sh.e.l.ls were put over too near them.

Then the Colonel and I went up through a wood that is just a few splintered stumps now.

We pa.s.sed behind several batteries, and I thought to myself: "Dash it all! I know my eyes can't be watering because of the noise. What the deuce is the matter? I hope the Colonel won't notice."

However, on we waded and plodded. Suddenly the Colonel stopped, and exclaimed: "Oh d.a.m.nation! This is perfect nonsense." His eyes were like tomatoes, and the tears were rolling down his cheeks!

By this time we could hardly see at all, and it dawned on us that we must hastily put on our tear goggles, which we had never used before, but always, of course, carry. They go in the satchel along with the two gas helmets.

Presently we met some infantry coming back, all safely begoggled. The Huns, they told us, were dropping tear sh.e.l.ls just into that valley in front, where our working-party was supposed to be. You can tell them (the tear sh.e.l.ls), they said, by the fluttering sound, and they knock up no earth and make very little smoke.

Sure enough, as soon as we got over the brow there they were. They make a foolish wobbly, wavy sound as they come over, and look most innocent.

So they are really if you get your goggles on in time. But if one bursts close to you, and you haven't got goggles on, why, then you'll be as blind as an owl, and you'll weep like a shower bath.

[Sidenote: BETWEEN HIGH WOOD AND FLERS]

Then the absurd thing was that we couldn't find the working-party.

Plenty of dead Huns, but n.o.body alive. Not a sign. Only crumps dropping here and there and everywhere. So we found a bit of a trench that led back round the side of the wood. The front line trenches were only very lightly held, partly because they are almost completely blown in. And we could get no information as to the working-party at all.

Presently we saw why. The Huns had put up a barrage across the valley they were coming up. We knew they would come up this other valley, as they had to report on their way to H.Q., ---- Division. So we got into a hole and waited.

After about half an hour the barrage lifted and up came our working-party none the worse. It is a most amazing war. People literally dodge sh.e.l.ls and things as you might dodge snow-b.a.l.l.s.

When we arrived back at the place where we left our two men, they also were not to be seen.

After some time and anxious inquiries for two men with four horses, we at last discovered them nearly half a mile away. Fritz had put some heavy stuff over fairly near, and they had moved.

"A very interesting bit of the line isn't it, Hale?" I said as we moved off. "Yes, sir," he said, adding with a fierce frown, "but not very _safe_, sir."

And then we all laughed. Hale does frown so when he makes one of his oracular utterances.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A HOUSE IN GEUDECOURT Here, as in many of these sketches, there are no people to be seen, for the simple reason that they are all underground in dug-outs.]

_September 29._

It's up to us to reconnoitre carefully every time there is a move forward, so as to see the new ground.

One of the most curious and interesting things is this: the Boche rarely wastes. He only puts his crumps and pip-squeaks just where he thinks (or knows) our batteries are, and our infantry want to be, and our horses would be likely to be (if they weren't somewhere else). So that gradually you begin to track out safe routes. Don't go near the edge of ---- Wood, but 200 yards inside the wood, on the north side, you're pretty comfy. Don't go near the mangled remains of ---- village, but keep to the right of it until you get to the wrecked aeroplane, and then turn down the remains of ---- trench, and you probably won't be touched.

That sort of thing.

[Sidenote: BOCHE DUG-OUTS]

I've been sleeping in the most superb Boche dug-out. Very deep; I should think 30 feet down. The inside is pillared rather like the studio, and cretonned all over with maroon-coloured stuff instead of wall-paper. There are lovely little cupboards everywhere, and doors and window-frames just like a real house. The windows, of course, only look out on to an air-shaft, so it's very dark, and you have to have candles all the time. The windows have no gla.s.s, of course, as that would be shattered to smithereens by the vibrations. Then there's an arch and more steps down lower still, into the bedroom for two.