CHAPTERXIX

chapterxix

atfirst,inthebeginningofthewar,ourofficersandmenbelievedthatitwouldhaveaquickending.ourfirstexpeditionaryforcecameouttofrancewiththecheerfulshoutof“nowwesha'n'tbelong!”beforetheyfellbackfromanadvancingtideofgermansfrommonstothemarne,andfellintheiryouthlikeautumnleaves.thenewarmyboyswhofollowedthemweredesperatetogetoutto“thegreatadventure.”theycursedthelengthoftheirtraininginenglishcamps.“wesha'n'tgetouttillit'stoolate!”theysaid.toolate,ogod!evenwhentheyhadhadtheirfirstspellinthetrenchesandcameupagainstgermanstrengththeykeptaqueerfaith,foratime,that“something”wouldhappentobringpeaceasquicklyaswarhadcome.peacewasalwayscomingthreemonthsahead.generalsandstaff-officers,aswellassergeantsandprivates,hadthatstrongoptimism,notbasedonanykindofreason;butgraduallyitdiedout,andinitsplacecametheawfulconvictionwhichsettledupontheheartsofthefighting-men,thatthiswarwouldgoonforever,thatitwastheirdoomalwaystoliveinditchesanddugouts,andthattheironlywayofescapewasbya“blighty”woundorbydeath.

achaplainiknewusedtotrytocheerupdespondentboysbypretendingtohavespecialknowledgeofinsidepolitics.

“ihaveitongoodauthority,”hesaid,“thatpeaceisnearathand.therehavebeennegotiationsinparis—”

or:

“idon'tmindtellingyouladsthatifyougetthroughthenextscrapyouwillhavepeacebeforeyouknowwhereyouare.”

theywerenotbelieving,now.hehadplayedthatgametoooften.

“oldstuff,padre!”theysaid.

thatparticularcrowddidnotgetthroughthenextscrap.butthepadre'sauthoritywasgood.theyhadpeacelongbeforethearmistice.

itwasworstofallforboysofsensitivemindswhowereluckyenoughtogeta“cushie”wound,andsowentonandon,orwhowerepatchedupagainquicklyafterone,two,orthreewounds,andcamebackagain.itwasaboylikethatwhorevealedhisbitternesstomeonedayaswestoodtogetherinthesalient.

“it'sthelengthofthewar,”hesaid,“whichdoesonedown.atfirstitseemedlikeabigadventure,andtheexcitementofit,horriblethoughitwas,keptonegoing.eventhefirsttimeiwentoverthetopwasn'tsobadasithoughtitwouldbe.iwasdazedanddrunkwithallsortsofemotions,includingfear,thatwereworsebeforegoingover.ihadwhatwecall`theneedle.'theyallhaveit.afterwardonedidn'tknowwhatonewasdoing—eventhekillingpartofthebusiness—untilonereachedtheobjectiveandlaydownandhadtimetothinkandtocountthedeadabout...nowtheexcitementhasgoneoutofit,andthewarlooksasthoughitwouldgoonforever.atfirstweallsearchedthepapersforsomehopethattheendwasnear.wedon'tdothatnow.weknowthatwheneverthewarends,thisyearornext,thislittlecrowdwillbemostlywipedout.boundtobe.andwhyarewegoingtodie?that'swhatallofuswanttoknow.what'sitallabout?ohyes,iknowtheusualanswers:'indefenseofliberty,''tosavetheempire.'butwe'vealllostourliberty.we'reslavesundershell-fire.andasfortheempire—idon'tgiveacurseforit.i'mthinkingonlyofmylittlehomeatstreathamhill.thehorriblehun?i'venoquarrelwiththepoorblightersovertherebyhooge.theyareinthesamebloodymessasweare.theyhateitjustasmuch.we'reallunderaspelltogether,whichsomedevilshaveputonus.iwonderifthere'sagodanywhere.”

thissenseofbeingunderablackspellifoundexpressedbyothermen,andbygermanprisonerswhousedthesamephrase.irememberoneoftheminthebattlesofthesomme,whosaid,ingoodenglish:“thiswarwasnotmadeinanysensebymankind.weareunderaspell.”thisbeliefwasdue,ithink,totheimpersonalcharacterofmodernwarfare,inwhichgun-fireisatsolongarangethatshell-firehasthequalityofnaturalandelementalpowersofdeath—likethunderbolts—andmenkilledtwentymilesbehindthelineswhilewalkingoversunnyfieldsorinbusyvillageshadnothoughtofahumanenemydesiringtheirindividualdeath.

godandchristianityraisedperplexitiesinthemindsofsimpleladsdesiringlifeandnotdeath.theycouldnotreconcilethechristianpreceptsofthechaplainwiththebayonetingofgermansandtheshamblesofthebattlefields.allthisbloodandmangledfleshinthefieldsoffranceandflandersseemedtothem—tomanyofthem,iknow—acertainproofthatgoddidnotexist,orifhedidexistwasnot,astheyweretold,agodoflove,butamonstergladoftheagoniesofmen.thatatleastwasthethoughtexpressedtomebysomelondonladswhoarguedthematterwithmeoneday,andthatwasthethoughtwhichourarmychaplainshadtomeetfrommenwhowouldnotbeputoffbyconventionalwords.itwasnotgoodenoughtotellthemthatthegermanswereguiltyofallthiscrimeandthatunlessthegermanswerebeatentheworldwouldloseitslibertyandlife.“yes,weknowallthat,”theysaid,“butwhydidgodallowthegermans,orthestatesmenwhoarrangedtheworldbyforce,ortheclergywhochristenedbritishwarships?andhowisitthatbothsidespraytothesamegodforvictory?theremustbesomethingwrongsomewhere.”

itwasnotoftenmentalkedlikethat,excepttosomechaplainwhowasahuman,comradelysoul,somecatholic“padre”whodevotedhimselffearlesslytotheirbodilyandspiritualneeds,riskinghislifewiththem,ortosomepresbyterianministerwhobroughtthemhotcocoaundershell-fire,withacheerywordortwo,asionceheard,of“keepyourheartsup,mylads,andyourheadsdown.”

mostofthemenbecamefatalists,withoddsuperstitionsintheplaceoffaith.“it'snogoodworrying,”theysaid.

“ifyournameiswrittenonagermanshellyoucan'tescapeit,andifitisn'twritten,nothingcantouchyou.”

officersaswellasmenhadthisfatalisticbeliefandsuperstitionswhichamusedthemandhelpedthem.“havethehunsfoundyououtyet?”iaskedsomegunnerofficersinaruinedfarmhousenearkemmelhill.“notyet,”saidoneofthem,andthentheyallleftthetableatwhichwewereatlunchand,makingarushforsomeoakbeams,embracedthemardently.theyweretouchingwood.

“takethiswithyou,”saidanirishofficeronanightiwenttoypres.“itwillhelpyouasithashelpedme.it'smyluckycharm.”hegavemealittlebitofcoalwhichhecarriedinhistunic,andhewassoearnestaboutitthatitookitwithoutasmileandfeltthesaferforit.

onceinawhilethemenwenthomeonsevendays'leave,orfour,andthencamebackagain,gloomily,withacuriouskindofhatredofenglandbecausethepeoplethereseemedsocalloustotheirsuffering,soutterlywithoutunderstanding,so“damnedcheerful.”theyhatedthesmilingwomeninthestreets.theyloathedtheoldmenwhosaid,“ifihadsixsonsiwouldsacrificethemallinthesacredcause.”theydesiredthatprofiteersshoulddiebypoison-gas.theyprayedgodtogetthegermanstosendzeppelinstoengland—tomakethepeopleknowwhatwarmeant.theirleavehaddonethemnogoodatall.

fromaweek-endathomeistoodamonganumberofsoldierswhoweregoingbacktothefront,afteroneofthoseleaves.theboatwarpedawayfromthepier,them.t.o.andasmallgroupofofficers,detectives,andredcrossmendisappearedbehindanemptytrain,andthe“revenants”ondeckstaredbackatthecliffsofenglandacrossawideningstripofsea.

“backtothebloodyoldtrenches,”saidavoice,andthewordsendedwithahardlaugh.theywerespokenbyayoungofficeroftheguards,whomihadseenontheplatformofvictoriasayinggood-bytoaprettywoman,whohadputherhandonhisshoulderforamoment,andsaid,“dobecareful,desmond,formysake!”afterwardhehadsatinthecornerofhiscarriage,staringwithafixedgazeattherushingcountryside,butseeingnothingofit,perhaps,ashisthoughtstraveledbackward.(afewdayslaterhewasblowntobitsbyabomb—anaccidentofwar.)

alittlemanondeckcameuptomeandsaid,inamelancholyway,“youknowwhoiam,don'tyou,sir?”

ihadn'ttheleastideawhohewas—thislittleginger—hairedsoldierwithawizenedandwistfulface.butisawthatheworetheclaret-coloredribbonofthev.c.onhiskhakitunic.hegavemehisname,andsaidthepapershad“donehimproud,”andthattheyhadmadealotofhimathome—presentations,receptions,speeches,lordmayor'saddresses,cheeringcrowds,andallthat.hewasoneofourheroes,thoughonecouldn'ttellitbythelookofhim.

“nowi'mgoingbacktothetrenches,”hesaid,gloomily.“sameoldbusinessandoneofthecrowdagain.”hewassufferingfromthereactionofpopularidolatry.hefelthippedbecausenoonemadeafussofhimnoworbotheredabouthisclaret-coloredribbon.thestaff-officers,chaplains,brigademajors,regimentalofficers,andarmynursesweremoreinterestedinanairship,asilverfishwithshininggillsandahummingsonginitsstomach.

france...andthebeginningofwhatthelittlev.c.hadcalled“thesameoldbusiness.”therewasthelongfleetofmotor-ambulancesasareminderoftheultimatebusinessofallthoseyoungmeninkhakiwhomihadseendrillingintheembankmentgardensandshoulderingtheirwaydownthestrand.

somestretcherswerebeingcarriedtotheliftwhichgoesdowntothedeckofthehospital-ship,onwhichanofficerwastickingoffeachwoundedbodyafteraglanceatthelabeltiedtotheman'stunic.severalyoungofficerslayundertheblanketsonthosestretchersandoneofthemcaughtmyeyeandsmiledasilookeddownuponhim.thesameoldbusinessandthesameoldpluck.

imotoreddownthelong,straightroadsoffranceeastward,towardthatnetworkoflineswhicharetheendofalljourneysafterafewdays'leave,homeandbackagain.thesameoldsightsandsoundsandsmellswhich,aslongasmemorylasts,tomenwhohadthelucktolivethroughthewar,willhauntthemfortherestoflife,andspeakofflanders.

theharvestwasnearlygatheredin,andwhere,aweekortwobefore,therehadbeenfieldsofhigh,bronzedcorntherewerenowlongstretchesofstubbledgroundwaitingfortheplow.thewheat-sheaveshadbeenpiledintostacksor,frommanygreatfields,cartedawaytothered-roofedbarnsbelowtheblackoldwindmillswhosesailsweremotionlessbecausenobreathofairstirredonthisseptemberafternoon.thesmellofflemishvillages—amingledodorofsun-bakedthatchandbakeriesandmanureheapsandcowsandancientvaporsstoredupthroughthecenturies—wasoverbornebyanewandmorepungentaromawhichcreptoverthefieldswiththeeveninghaze.

itwasasad,melancholysmell,tellingofcorruptionanddeath.itwasthefirstbreathofautumn,andishiveredalittle.musttherebeanotherwinterofwar?theoldmiseryofdarknessanddampnesswascreepingupthroughthesplendorofseptembersunshine.

thosesoldiersdidnotseemtosmellit,or,iftheirnostrilswerekeen,tominditsmenace—thosesoldierswhocamemarchingdowntheroad,withtannedfaces.howfinetheylooked,andhowhard,andhowcheerful,withtheirlot!speaktothemseparatelyandeverymanwould“grouse”atthedurationofthewarandswearthathewas“fedup”withit.homesicknessassailedthemattimeswithadeadlynostalgia.thehammeringofshell-fire,whichtakesitsdailytoll,spoiledtheirtemperandshooktheirnerves,asfarasabritishsoldierhadanynerves,whichiusedtosometimesdoubt,untilisawagaintheshell-shockcases.

butagainiheardtheirlaughterandanoldsongwhistledvilelyoutoftune,butcheerfultothetrampoftheirfeet.theyweregoingbacktothetrenchesafteraspellinarest-camp,tothesameoldbusinessofwhizz-bangsandpip-squeaks,anddugouts,andthesmellofwetclayandchlorideoflime,andthelifeofearth-menwhooncebelongedtoacivilizationwhichhadpassed.andtheywentwhistlingontheirway,becauseitwastheverybestthingtodo.

onepickeduptheoldlandmarksagain,andgotbackintothe“feel”ofthewarzone.therewerethefiveoldwindmillsofcasselthatwavetheirarmsupthehillroad,andtheestaminetsbywhichonefoundone'swaydowncountrylanes—“theveritablecuckoo”and“thelostcorner”and“theflowerofthefields”—andthefirstsmashedroofsandbrokenbarnswhichledtotheareaofconstantshell-fire.ugh!

soitwasstillgoingon,thisbloodymurder!thereweresomemorecottagesdowninthevillage,wherewehadteaamonthbefore.andinthemarket-placeofasleepyoldtownthewindowsweremostlybrokenandsomeshopshadgoneintodustandashes.thatwasnewsincewelastpassedthisway.

londonwasonlysevenhoursaway,butthehoursonleavethereseemedayearagoalready.themenwhohadcomeback,aftersleepingincivilizationwithablessedsenseofsafety,hadafewminutesofqueersurprisethat,afterall,thisbusinessofwarwassomethingmorerealthanafantasticnightmare,andthenputontheirmoralcloaksagainstthechillandgrimreality,foranotherlongspellofit.veryquicklythefamiliarityofitallcamebacktothemandbecamethenormalinsteadoftheabnormal.theywerebackagaintothesettledstateofwar,asboysgobacktopublicschoolsafterthewrenchfromhome,andfindthattheholidayisonlytheincidentandschoolthemoreenduringexperience.

therewerenonewimpressions,onlytherepetitionofoldimpressions.soifoundwheniheardthegunsagainandwatchedtheshellsburstingaboutypresandoverkemmelridgeandmessineschurchtower.

twogermanairplanespassedoverhead,andthehumoftheirengineswasloudinmyearsasilayinthegrass.ourshrapnelburstaboutthem,butdidnottouchtheirwings.allaroundtherewastheslammingofgreatguns,andisatchewingabitofstrawbythesideofashell-hole,thinkinginthesameoldwayoftheuttersenselessnessofallthisnoiseandhateandsuddendeathwhichencircledmeformiles.noamountofmeditationwouldscrewanewmeaningoutofitall.itwasjustthecommonplaceoflifeouthere.

theroutineofitwenton.theofficerwhocamebackfromhomesteppedintohisoldplace,andafterthefirstgreetingof,“hullo,oldman!hadagoodtime?”foundhisoldjobwaitingforhim.sotherewasanewbrigadier-general?quickpromotion,byjove!

fourmenhadgotknockedoutthatmorningatd4,anditwasrottenbadluckthatthesergeant-majorshouldhavebeenamongthem.arealgoodfellow.however,there'sthatcourtmartialforthisafternoon,and,bytheby,whenisthattimbercomingup?can'tbuildthenewdugoutifthere'snodecentwoodtobegotbystealingorotherwise.youheardhowthemengotstrafedintheirbilletstheotherday?dirtywork!

themanwhohadcomebackwentintothetrenchesandhadawordortwowiththen.c.o.'s.thenhewentintohisowndugout.themicehadbeengettingathispapers.ohyes,that'swherehelefthispipe!itwaslyingunderthetrestle-table,justwherehedroppeditbeforegoingonleave.theclaywallswereabitwetaftertherains.hestoodwithachilledfeelinginthislittleholeofhis,staringateveryfamiliarthinginit.

tackedtothewallwastheportraitofawoman.hesaidgood-bytoheratvictoriastation.howlongago?surelymorethansevenhours,orsevenyears...outsidethereweretheoldnoises.thegunswereatitagain.thatwasatrench-mortar.theenemy'seight-inchhowitzerswereingaway.whatabeastlyrowthatmachine-gunwasmaking!playingonthesameoldspot.whycouldn'ttheyleaveitalone,theasses?...anyhow,therewasnodoubtaboutit—hehadcomebackagain.backtothetrenchesandthesameoldbusiness.

therewasaminetobeblownupthatnightanditwouldmakeaprettymessintheenemy'slines.thecolonelwasverycheerfulaboutit,andexplainedthatagooddealofsappinghadbeendone.“we'vegotthebulgeon'em,”hesaid,referringtotheenemy'sfailuresinthisclassofwork.inthemessalltheofficerswerecarryingonasusual,makingthesameoldjokes.

themanwhohadcomebackgotbackalsothespiritofthethingwithastonishingrapidity.thatotherlifeofhis,awaythereinoldlondon,wasshutupinthecupboardofhisheart.

soitwentonandonuntilthetortureofitsboredomwasbrokenbythecrashofbigbattles,andthenewarmies,whichhadbeenlearninglessonsintheschoolofcourage,wentforwardtothegreattest,andpassed,withhonor.