  THE Major has just phoned me to say that there’s an officer coming forward to relieve me, and that he won’t be one of us. That sets me wondering; does it mean that we’re going to be pulled out to take part in the fight? There have been all kinds of rumours going the rounds this summer—rumours to the effect that when Foch has let the Hun advance far enough our Corps is to be made the hammer-head of the offensive which is to push him back. There would seem to be some truth in the report, for every time we’ve been withdrawn from the line it’s been to practise open warfare. We’ve rehearsed with tanks and aeroplanes, and fought sham battles in which nearly all our work has consisted in coming into action at the gallop. We’ve been nicknamed “Foch’s Pets,” which may not mean very much; but it at least seems certain that when the Allies’ drive starts we shall be in it. The thought is intoxicating: it means the end of waiting. But what will become of Bully Beef and his mother if we sail off into the blue on a great attack? Bully Beef and his mother need explaining; they have no official standing—they are members of our battery whom the Army does not recognize. Bully Beef is a little boy in skirts, about four years old I should hazard. His mother is a French girl of not more than twenty; she is not married. Bully Beef introduced himself to the battery about two months ago when we were out at training. He used to hide himself in the hedge of a deeply wooded lane which climbed the hill to the sergeants’ mess; from this point of vantage he used to throw sticks and stones at anyone in khaki. He had long hair down to the middle of his small fat back; this, taken in conjunction with his skirts, left all the battery fully persuaded for a week that he was a girl. On account of his supposed sex he was not chastised for his stone-throwing. We called him “Little Sister". Our wagon-lines lay at the bottom of the hill in a meadow the length of which a tiny river ran. Along the sides of the river bushes grew in tangled profusion. It was here that we held our watering parades, leading our horses close to the edge of the bank so that they could dip their noses in the ripples. In the woods near by our men had their bivouacs, creating the appearance of a gipsy-camp At the top of the meadow our guns anti wagons were parked; behind them in three straight lines our horses had their standings. In the bowl of the valley, as far as eye could stretch, the wheat grew yellow. Round the lip of the bowl, where the hills touched the sky, the coolness of woods drew a thick green line. It was a very quiet spot, mellow with nightingales, and lazy with summer. It gave no hint of battle, except at night when the bombing planes came over to destroy us and the chalky fingers of searchlights unravelled the clouds and suddenly pointed. When they pointed, every Archie for miles round would open up at an intense rate of fire. I say it gave no hint of battle. That is not quite precise. What I mean is that the country itself gave no hint of unrest in its own appearance. Among the people the signs were plentiful. There were ourselves for instance. Every village was parked with storm-troops, being fattened up like turkeys for killing. There were Chinamen building new railways through the grain in preparation for the retreat which seemed inevitable. All kinds of new trench-systems were being dug, that we might dispute every inch of territory. Down the gleaming roads little processions of refugees were continually passing, led by an old horse, tied together with rope and string, and harnessed into a creaking dilapidated wagon. The wagon was invariably overloaded with things which looked absolutely worthless. On the shafts of the wagon a disconsolate man would sit, staring vacantly at everything and nothing. Following behind on foot would come a dog, some dirty children and a draggle-tailed woman. The woman seemed to be the least important part of the man’s possessions. Only the mouldy skeleton between the shafts seemed to hold any place in his affections; it helped him to escape. Every day such processions crawled through the sunshine. Our men laughed and shared their rations with the children. Ah, how merry we were and how much we laughed while we waited for death to call us! The refugees were fleeing towards life—a life which they dreaded. We had nothing to fear from living—life had done its worst. Not for an hour in the day or night did the guns cease their distant chiding, lowing like cattle and bidding us return. That we would return dramatically and without warning we were well aware. We were only ignorant of the place and time. We had cut down our kits to what was absolutely necessary; everything superfluous had been returned to Blighty. Our brigade held itself in readiness to march at a two hours’ notice. Most significant of all, every day both officers and men spent hours at the ranges, learning to be marksmen. This in itself was prophetic of close and desperate fighting—it meant that the enemy was expected to be up against the muzzles of our guns. Who ever dreamt until now of training artillery to be riflemen! These were the conditions under which we made Bully Beef’s acquaintance. The sergeants’ mess was in the cottage where his mother lived; he soon made friends with the Sergeant-Major. It wasn’t long before he began to appear upon parades, his grubby hand held fast in the big brown fist of one of the drivers or gunners. It was bad for good order and discipline, but none of us officers had the heart to forbid him. He soon learnt to obey the orders “Shun” and “Stand at ease,” and would hold himself steady with “eyes front” to be inspected. It was about a fortnight after we had been billetted in the village that we discovered that we could no longer call him “Little Sister": he fell into the river when the horses were watering and had to go naked while his clothes were drying. His parentage was a problem. Some said that he was the child of a rich married Frenchman; others that his father had been a quartermaster in a Highland battalion. We rather clung to the legend of his Scotch origin; his sturdy habit of throwing stones at people bigger than himself seemed to prove that he was British. His mother is difficult to describe. She’s a pleasant, sun browned girl, with a happy smile and kindly ways of showing her contentment. She rarely looks at you; her eyes, which are gray, are always demurely cast down, and yet you feel that all the time she’s watching. Her head is always bare so that her hair, which would naturally be brown, is bleached to the colour of honey. Whenever you pass her she is humming a little song, and sometimes she laughs beneath her breath. Her hands are interminably busy, doing something for Bully Beef or some of our men. She devours her little son with a hungry passion and pushes him away from her in pretence that she does not care. Everything that she does she clothes in an atmosphere of tenderness. What her name is none of us know for certain, but we call her Suzette. When we received the order to march out from her village, we thought that we were going into an attack, instead of which at the end of the long night march we found ourselves again on the Ridge. Because it was night when we moved, nobody noticed that Suzette was following. I don’t believe she walked; I suspect that she rode in a G. S. wagon with the connivance of the Captain and the Quartermaster-Sergeant. When we found her at our new wagon-lines in the morning, no one felt like reporting officially on her presence. Since then she has made herself the mother of our battery; it’s to Suzette that we all go when we’ve lost a button or our clothes need patching. And it’s to Suzette that we go when the letters from our girls aren’t up to scratch. We just sit a little while and look at her; after that we renew our faith in women and feel better. The men have built her a little bivouac a short distance away from theirs, yet within ear-range if she should need them. Woe betide any blackguard who tries to molest her. It’s happened twice; the men lay cold for the best part of an hour. They were strangers from another unit. How does she exist on active service? The cook feeds her on the sly from the battery-kitchen. The men share with her the boxes that are sent to them from home. Our first thought on looking through a present of comforts is, “Ah, that will do for Suzette". For the rest, the Quartermaster supplies her with necessities and blankets. Of late she has taken to wearing a Tommy’s tunic and a khaki shirt. Suzette has become an institution; the Colonel and General are aware of her; they both wink at her presence. They may well, for she keeps our men straight; there’s been no drunkenness since she came among us. She’ll be the last woman to be seen by many of our chaps; the casualties in our counter-offensive are bound to be heavy. What I’m wondering is will she be allowed to accompany us if we go into open warfare; we can scarcely have a woman with us then. I’d bet the shirt off my back, however, that the Captain will manage it. He never speaks to her or of her—never seems to notice her; but if you watch him closely, you know that he listens for her laughter and her footstep. He’s a man to whom something shattering has happened—something not done by shells. He was badly wounded last year at Vimy; we none of us expected to see him back. He rejoined us suddenly in the spring. He’s come back to die; we all know that. By this time next year, if he can contrive it bravely, he won’t be listening for Suzette or any girl.
|
|
