Hirgen at 07:43, 19 September 2008

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Hirgen at 21:16, 7 September 2008

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<CENTER>XVIII 

THE HONOR OF THE BRIGADE</CENTER>

 THE battalion had had a fortnight of it, a fortnight of hard
work and short rations, of sleepless vigil and continual danger.
They had been holding trenches newly won from the Germans. When
they took them over they were utterly unsafe. They had been battered
to pieces by artillery; they were choked with burst sandbags and
dead men; there was no barbed wire; they faced the wrong way;
there were still communication trenches leading straight to the
enemy. The battalion had had to remake the trenches under fire.
They had had to push out barbed wire and build barriers across
the communication trenches. All the time they had had to be on
the watch. The Germans were sore at having lost the trenches,
and had given them no rest. Their mortars had rained bombs night
and day. Parties of bombers had made continual rushes down the
old communication trenches, or crept silently up through the long
grass, and dropped bombs among the workers. Sleep had been impossible.
All night the men had had to stand to their arms ready to repel
an attack, or to work at the more dangerous jobs such as the barbed
wire, which could only be attempted under cover of darkness. All
day they bad been dodging bombs, and doing the safer work of making
latrines, filling sandbags for the night, thickening the parapet,
burying the dead, and building dug-outs. At first they had hardly
received any rations at all, the communication with the rear had
been so precarious. Later the rations had arrived with greater
regularity; but even so the shortage, especially of water, had
been terrible. For several days one mess tin of water had had
to satisfy half a dozen men for a whole day. They had not grumbled.
They had realized that it was inevitable, and that the post was
a post of honor. They had set their teeth and toiled grimly, doggedly,
sucking the pebble which alone can help to keep at bay the demon
Thirst. They had done well, and they knew it. The colonel had
said as much, and he was not a man to waste words. They had left
the trench as safe as it could be made. And now they had been
relieved. They were out of danger, slogging wearily along the
road to the rest camp. They were sick with sleepiness. Their shoulders
ached under their heavy packs. Their feet were sore. Their clothes.,
which they had not changed for a fortnight, were filthy and lousy.
They no longer attempted to march in step or to hold themselves
erect. Each man limped along as best he could. They were dead
tired; but they were not dejected.

 They were going to rest; they were going to sleep long and
soundly, undisturbed by bombs. They were going to drink their
fill of good hot tea and thin Belgian beer. They were going to
get stews of fresh meat instead of the eternal Chicago bully.
They were going to have a hot bath, and be served out with clean
shirts and socks. They were far from dejected. The thought of
all these good things to come gleamed in their eyes as they marched,
and also the thought that they had done well and had upheld the
honor of the New Army, the brigade, and the proud regiment whose
name they bore.

 A few even began to talk. "Say, mate," remarked one,
"ow'd a good ole feather bed do now?" "Ah, and
a nice steak and chips when you got up in the morning." "Ah,
and whats wrong wiv a pint o' good British beer to wash it dahn
wiv?" "And the old woman a-bringing yer a cup o' tea
in the morning to your bed?" "And a nice fire in the
kitchen while you reads your paper." "Gahn! Wot's the
good of talking silly? 'Ow many of us d'yer think'll ever see
'ome agin?" "Well, mate, there's no 'arm in wishing,
and they do say as we shall all 'ave a week's 'oliday arter the
brigade's come aht of the trenches the next time."

 Soon the talk died down. The chill air of the hour before dawn
began to exert its proverbial power of depression. The men felt
cold and clammy, they had an acrid taste in their mouths, their
spirits seemed to fall to zero. They dragged their feet along
the cobbled road with a savage, sullen look on their faces. The
last stage of exhaustion was almost reached. A young subaltern,
who had been taught that the time to enforce discipline is when
the men are tired, started to shout at them: "Keep up there!
Pick up the step! Left-left-left, right, left." The men's
faces darkened a shade. A few muttered curses were heard. For
the most part they ignored him. The captain, an old campaigner,
called him off curtly.

 At last they reached the field where they were to bivouac.
The dawn was already breaking, and the air beginning to warm.
The battalion formed up in column of companies, four long double
lines. Arms were piled, and the men marched clear. Then they lay
down as they were in rows upon the grass, and the sun rose over
a field of sleeping men.

 Two hours passed. Away in the distance could be heard the incessant
rattle of musketry, mingled with the roar of the big guns. No
one heeded it. A motorcycle appeared at express speed. The colonel
was roused, the company commanders sent for. The men were wakened
up. Down the lines the message passed: "Stack valises by
platoons, and get ready to march off in fighting order; the Germans
have broken through." The men were too dazed to talk. Mechanically
they packed their greatcoats into their valises, and stacked them.
The Germans broken through! All their work wasted! It was incredible.
Water bottles were filled, extra ammunition served out, in silence.
The battalion fell in, and marched off along the same weary road
by which they had come. Two hours' sleep, no breakfast, no wash,
no drink. The men were dejected now.

 The road was full of troops. Columns of infantry slogged along
at the side. Guns and ammunition-wagons thundered down the paved
center. Motor dispatch riders flew past with fresh orders for
those in rear. The men sucked their pebbles in grim silence. It
was no time for grumbling. This meant business. They forgot their
fatigue, their thirst, their hunger. Their minds were full of
the folk at home whom they might not see again, and of the struggle
that lay before them. So they marched, silently, and with frequent
halts, most of the morning. At length they left the road and took
to the fields. They were going back whence they had come, by a
circuitous route. Shrapnel burst overhead. As they neared the
firing line they met streams of wounded returning from the scene
of action. The company commanders took charge. One company rested
to let another pass, and the men exchanged greetings. Men spoke
to each other who only knew each other by sight. An officer caught
the eye of a corporal and they both smiled, and felt that there
was some curious link between them, hitherto unguessed.

 A captain said a few words to his men during a halt. Some trenches
had been lost. It was their brigade that had lost them. For the
honor of the brigade, of the New Army, they must try to retake
them. The men listened in silence; but their faces were set. They
were content. The honor of the brigade demanded it. The captain
had said so, and they trusted him. They set off again, in single
file. There was a cry. Someone had stopped a bullet. Don't look
round; he will be looked after. It may be your turn next.

 They lay down behind a bank in a wood. Before them raged a
storm. Bullets fell like hail. Shells shrieked through the air,
and burst in all directions. The storm raged without any abatement.
The whistle would blow, then the first platoon would advance,
in extended order. Half a minute later the second would go forward,
followed at the same interval by the third and fourth. A man went
into hysterics, a pitiable object. His neighbor regarded him with
a sort of uncomprehending wonder. He was perfectly, fatuously
cool. Something had stopped inside him.

 A whistle blew. The first platoon scrambled to their feet and
advanced at the double. What happened no one could see. They disappeared.
The second line followed, and the third and fourth. Surely no
one could live in that hell. No one hesitated. They went forward
mechanically, as men in a dream. It was so mad, so unreal. Soon
they would awake. . . .

 It appeared that there was a trench at the edge of the wood.
It had been unoccupied. A couple of hundred yards in front., across
the open ground, was the trench which they were attacking. Half
a dozen men found themselves alone in the open ground before the
German wire. They lay down. No one was coming on. Where was everyone?
They crawled cautiously back to the trench at the edge of the
wood, and climbed in. One or two were there already. Two or three
wounded men limped in from the rear, and sank on the floor of
the trench. The storm raged on; but the attack was over. These
were what was left of two companies. All stain on the honor of
the brigade had been wiped out---in blood.

 There were three men in a bay of the trench. One was hit in
the leg, and sat on the floor cutting away his trousers so as
to apply a field dressing. One knelt down behind the parapet with
a look of dumb stupor on his face. The third, a boy of about seventeen
from a London slum, peered over the parapet at intervals. Suddenly
he disappeared over the top. He had discovered two wounded men
in a shell hole just in front, and was hoisting them into the
shelter of the trench. By a miracle not one of the three was hit.
A message was passed up the trench: "Hold on at all costs
till relieved." A council of war was held. Should they fire
or lie low? Better lie low, and only fire in case of attack. They
were safe from attack as long as the Bosches kept on firing. Someone
produced a tin of meat, some biscuits., and a full water-bottle.
The food was divided up, and a shell bursting just in rear covered
everything with dirt and made it uneatable. The water was reserved
for the wounded. The rest sucked their pebbles in stoical silence.

 Supports began to trickle in, and the wounded who could not
stand were laboriously removed from the narrow trench to some
dug-outs in the rear. Two of them were badly hit, and crying out
incessantly for water, or to shift their position. One was unconscious
and groaning. From the wood came frenzied shouts from a man in
delirium. The more slightly wounded tried to look after the others;
but soon the water was exhausted, and all they could do was to
promise that as soon as darkness fell help would come.

 Darkness fell. The battalion had been relieved; but the better
part of it lay out in the wood, or in the open before the wood,
dead or dying. The wood was full of groaning. Four stretcher-bearers
came and took away one man, an officer. The rest waited in vain.
An hour passed, and no one else came. Two were mortally hit, and
began to despair. They would die before help came. For Christ's
sake get some water. There was none to be had.

 A man wounded in the leg found that he could crawl on all fours.
He started to look for help. He crawled laboriously along the
path through the wood. It was choked with corpses. He crawled
over them as best he could. Once he found a full water-bottle,
which he gave to a sentry to send back to his mates. At last he
was picked up, and taken to the doctor, while others went to look
for his mates.

 The doctor was in a field. Rows of wounded lay there waiting
for stretcher-bearers to come and take them to the ambulances.
As many as could went on, those wounded in the leg with their
arms on the shoulders of those whose legs were whole. They limped
painfully along the interminable road till they came to the ambulance.
Then their troubles were over. A rapid drive brought them to the
dressing station. There they were given cocoa, inoculated for
tetanus, their wounds washed and bound up. Another drive took
them to the camp by the railway. Next morning they were put in
the train, and at length reached the hospital. There at last they
got the longed-for bath and the clean clothes and---joy of joys---were
put to sleep, unlimited sleep, in a real bed with clean white
sheets. They were at peace. But out in the open space between
the trenches lay some they had known and loved, unburied. And
others lay beneath wooden crosses behind the wood. Yet it was
well. The brigade was saved. Its honor was vindicated. Though
its men might be fresh from home and untried in war, they would
not fail. The brigade had had its baptism in blood, and its self-confidence
was established for all time.

 NOTE.---The action described in the above article has been
identified by correspondents at the front., and so it is necessary
to state that although based in the main on an actual experience,
features have been freely borrowed from other occasions, and the
writer has no authority for placing the construction that he has
on the main event.

XVIII THE HONOR OF THE BRIGADE - Revision history

Hirgen at 07:43, 19 September 2008

Hirgen at 21:16, 7 September 2008