On the right of the British line Part 8

"Like it?"

"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but it seems to please some. I longed to come out; thought it would be interesting and all that sort of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but get from place to place, carrying a beastly load with me."

"Probably your own fault. I have never seen a pack or haversack crammed so full. What have you brought with you?"

"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. Has my kit arrived?"

"My dear chap, you will never see your kit up here; and what is more, you will have to leave most of those things you have brought with you behind, before you go up the front line. Dump your things out here, and I will tell you what to take."

We emptied his pack and haversack. I have never in all my life seen such a lot of rubbish in the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be nothing there he would really need; but a curious mixture of strange articles which would fill a fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with ebony backs and silver monograms, silk handkerchiefs with fancy borders, a pinky tooth-paste, oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed between a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of reddish tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three years; and half of which had leaked through the cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful shades. There was a box of cigars, a heavy china pot of ma.s.sage-cream, a pot of hair-pomade, a leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror, which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of fountain-pen ink, two suits of silk pajamas, one striped with pink and the other blue, a huge bath-towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each day in the week, and a sponge as big as his head. Poor Septimus! in his simplicity and ignorance, for the first time in his life he had packed his own kit.

CHAPTER XI

DEATH VALLEY

MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. ---- BATTALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSESSION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM

The final preparations completed, the first platoon began to move off; other platoons followed at intervals, the column slowly wending its way through the Valley of Death to its mysterious destination.

We seemed to be going into the unknown; the air was full of mystery; it was uncanny, unnatural. We were moving over battle-fields. The ground was a ma.s.s of sh.e.l.l-holes; progress could only be made by walking in single file along a narrow footpath, which twisted in tortuous persistency between the sh.e.l.l-holes, causing innumerable halts and starts, until the column tailed off into an endless line of shadowy figures.

Here and there the men became lost to view in some gun-ridden cavity; whilst there again they appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky, as man by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in the ground.

Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week lay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the heavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death.

There are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and the irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pa.s.s onward to brave a similar fate.

The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that long, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay side by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line where the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a devil's vengeance.

As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried in debris--here and there lying doubled in unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some mortal wound--I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own h.e.l.l, but a h.e.l.l far more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.

After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense relief, the ---- Battalion, London Regiment, were in possession.

After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the line of sh.e.l.l-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final word with one of the ---- officers:

"How many casualties?" I asked.

"About fifty in two days--bit tough, eh?"

"Been attacked, then?"

"No; sh.e.l.led like billyho. They've got the range nicely."

"Where's the Boche?"

"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end extending into the wood."

"Fritz there?"

"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery.

The part that extends into the wood the ---- Regiment are holding; but the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think.

Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!"

After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly emerged, house by house, from the rising mist.

In the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the hand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army.

There, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in the shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the remains of a copse which had been sh.e.l.led until only the stumps of a few trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was puzzling.

I went over to consult the French officer on my right:

"Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a smart young officer.

"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the ---- Battalion, London Regiment, already--yes?"

"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there; they are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?"

"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that farm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine."

I went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I stand? Whew! I was getting the wind up.

CHAPTER XII

OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND

SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN

After a strenuous day's work, during which I had only time to take a mouthful of bread and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied an orderly making his way towards me.

"The C.O. sent me, sir; you're wanted at once."

"Oh! any news?"

"I think we are in for a binge, sir."

"Which is the way to headquarters?"

"About two hundred yards back. Follow that narrow little track which winds around the sh.e.l.l-holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the track, or you will lose your way."

On arriving at H.Q. I found a small group of officers bending anxiously over a map. The C.O. turned to me as I approached: