The Red Horizon Part 19

"Your boot's on my face."

"n.o.body struck?"

"n.o.body." (p. 191)

"Gawd! I hope they don't send many packets like that."

"Spread out a little to the left," came the order from an officer.

"When you hear a sh.e.l.l coming lie flat."

We got to our feet, all except Stoner, who was still asleep in his lair, and changed our positions, our ears alert for the arrival of the next sh.e.l.l. The last bee had scarcely ceased to buzz when we heard the second projectile coming.

"Another couple of steps. Hurry up. Down." Again we threw ourselves in a heap; the sh.e.l.l burst and again we were covered with dust and muck.

"Move on a bit. Quicker! The next will be here in a minute," was the cry and we stumbled along the narrow alley hurriedly as if our lives depended on the very quickness. When we came to a halt there was only a s.p.a.ce of two feet between each man. The trench was just wide enough for the body of one, and all set about to sort themselves in the best possible manner. A dozen sh.e.l.ls now came our way in rapid succession.

Some of the men went down on their knees and pressed their faces close to the ground like Moslems at prayer. They looked for all the (p. 192) world like Moslems, as the pictures show them, prostrate in prayer.

The posture reminded me of stories told of ostriches, birds I have never seen, who bury their heads in the sand and consider themselves free from danger when the world is hidden from their eyes.

Safety in that style did not appeal to me; I sat on the bottom of the trench, head erect. If a splinter struck me it would wound me in the shoulders or the arms or knees. I bent low so that I might protect my stomach; I had seen men struck in that part of the body, the wounds were ghastly and led to torturing deaths. When a sh.e.l.l came near, I put the b.a.l.l.s of my hands over my eyes, spread my palms outwards and covered my ears with the fingers. This was some precaution against blindness; and deadened the sound of explosion. Bill for a moment was unmoved, he stood upright in a niche in the wall and made jokes.

"If I kick the bucket," he said, "don't put a cross with ''E died for 'is King and Country' over me. A bully beef tin at my 'ead will do, and on it scrawled in chalk, ''E died doin' fatigues on an empty stomach.'"

"A cig.," he called, "'oo as a cig., a f.a.g, a dottle. If yer can't (p. 193) give me a f.a.g, light one and let me look at it burnin.' Give Tommy a f.a.g an' 'e doesn't care wot 'appens. That was in the papers. Blimey!

it puts me in mind of a dummy teat. Give it to the pore man's pianner...."

"The what!"

"The squalling kid, and tell the brat to be quiet, just like they tell Tommy to 'old 'is tongue when they give 'im a cig. Oh, blimey!"

A sh.e.l.l burst and a dozen splinters whizzed past Bill's ears. He was down immediately another prostrate Moslem on the floor of the trench.

In front of me Pryor sat, his head bent low, moving only when a sh.e.l.l came near, to raise his hands and cover his eyes. The high explosive sh.e.l.ls boomed slowly in from every quarter now, and burst all round us. Would they fall into the trench? If they did! The La Ba.s.see monster, the irresistible giant, so confident of its strength was only one amongst the many. We sank down, each in his own way, closer to the floor of the trench. We were preparing to be wounded in the easiest possible way. True we might get killed; lucky if we escaped! Would any of us see the dawn?...

One is never aware of the shrapnel sh.e.l.l until it bursts. They (p. 194) had been pa.s.sing over our heads for a long time, making a sound like the wind in telegraph wires, before one burst above us. There was a flash and I felt the heat of the explosion on my face. For a moment I was dazed, then I vaguely wondered where I had been wounded. My nerves were on edge and a coldness swept along my spine.... No, I wasn't struck....

"All right, Pryor?" I asked.

"Something has gone down my back, perhaps it's clay," he answered.

"You're safe?"

"I think so," I answered. "Bill."

"I've copped it," answered the c.o.c.kney. "Here in my back, it's burnin'

'orrid."

"A minute, matey," I said, tumbling into a kneeling position and bending over him. "Let me undo your equipment."

I pulled his pack-straps clear, loosened his shirt front and tunic, pulled the clothes down his back. Under the left shoulder I found a hot piece of shrapnel casing which had just pierced through his dress and rested on the skin. A black mark showed where it had burned in but little harm was done to Bill.

"You're all right, matey," I said. "Put on your robes again."

"Stretcher-bearers at the double," came the cry up the trench and (p. 195) I turned to Pryor. He was attending to one of our mates, a Section 3 boy who caught a bit in his arm just over the wrist. He was in pain, but the prospect of getting out of the trench buoyed him up into great spirits.

"It may be England with this," he said.

"Any others struck?" I asked Pryor who was busy with a first field dressing on the wounded arm.

"Don't know," he answered. "There are others, I think."

"Every man down this way is struck," came a voice; "one is out."

"Killed?"

"I think so."

"Who is he?"

"Spud Higgles," came the answer; then--"No, he's not killed, just got a nasty one across the head."

They crawled across us on the way to the dressing station, seven of them. None were seriously hurt, except perhaps Spud Higgles, who was a little groggy and vowed he'd never get well again until he had a decent drink of English beer, drawn from the tap.

The sh.e.l.ling never slackened; and all the missiles dropped (p. 196) perilously near; a circle of five hundred yards with the trench winding across it, enclosed the dumping ground of the German guns. At times the trench was filled with the acid stench of explosives mixed with fine lime flung from the fallen masonry with which the place was littered. This caused every man to cough, almost choking as the throat tried to rid itself of the foreign substance. One or two fainted and recovered only after douches of cold water on the face and chest.

The suspense wore us down; we breathed the suffocating fumes of one explosion and waited, our senses tensely strung for the coming of the next sh.e.l.l. The sang-froid which carried us through many a tight corner with credit utterly deserted us, we were washed-out things; with noses to the cold earth, like rats in a trap we waited for the next moment which might land us into eternity. The excitement of a bayonet charge, the mad tussle with death on the blood-stained field, which for some reason is called the field of honour was denied us; we had to wait and lie in the trench, which looked so like a grave, and sink slowly into the depths of depression.

Everything seemed so monstrously futile, so unfinished, so (p. 197) useless. Would the dawn see us alive or dead? What did it matter? All that we desired was that this were past, that something, no matter what, came and relieved us of our position. All my fine safeguards against terrible wounds were neglected. What did it matter where a sh.e.l.l hit me now, a weak useless thing at the bottom of a trench? Let it come, blow me to atoms, tear me to pieces, what did I care? I felt like one in a horrible nightmare; unable to help myself. I lay pa.s.sive and waited.

I believe I dozed off at intervals. Visions came before my eyes, the sandbags on the parapet a.s.sumed fantastic shapes, became alive and jeered down at me. I saw Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, the lively youth who is so real to all the children of Donegal, look down at me from the top of the trench. He carried a long, glistening bayonet in his hand and laughed at me. I thought him a fool for ever coming near the field of war. War! Ah, it amused him! He laughed at me. I was afraid; he was not; he was afraid of nothing. What would Bill think of him? I turned to the c.o.c.kney; but he knelt there, head to the earth, a motionless Moslem. Was he asleep? Probably he was; any way it (p. 198) did not matter.

The dawn came slowly, a gradual awaking from darkness into a cheerless day, cloudy grey and pregnant with rain that did not fall. Now and again we could hear bombs bursting out in front and still the artillery thundered at our communication trench.

Bill sat upright rubbing his chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"What's wrong! Everythink," he answered. "There are platoons of intruders on my shirt, sappin' and diggin' trenches and Lord knows wot!"

"Verminous, Bill?"

"Cooty as 'ell," he said. "But wait till I go back to England. I'll go inter a beershop and get a pint, a gallon, a barrel--"

"A hogshead," I prompted.

"I've got one, my own napper's an 'og's 'ead," said Bill.

"When I get the beer I'll capture a coot, a big bull coot, an' make 'im drunk," he continued. "When 'e's in a fightin' mood I'll put him inside my shirt an' cut 'im amok. There'll be ructions; 'e'll charge the others with fixed bayonets an' rout 'em. Oh! blimey! will they ever stop this d.a.m.ned caper? Nark it. Fritz, nark yer doin's, (p. 199) ye fool."

Bill cowered down as the sh.e.l.l burst, then sat upright again.

"I'm gettin' more afraid of these things every hour," he said, "what is the war about?"