Читать книгу With Haig on the Somme - D. H. Parry - Страница 13

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The staff cap, with its scarlet band and gold-edged peak, spun round in the air and dropped half a dozen yards away, as its late wearer sprang on to the parapet and vanished out of sight.

"Great Scott! Are you mad, Dennis?" shouted Dan, still holding him tightly; but there was no madness in the boy's face as he turned it to his cousin.

"You blithering ass! You seventeen different assorted kinds of an utter idiot!" yelled Dennis. "I know that man—he is a German spy, and you've made me miss him!"

Dan Dunn's arms released their grip and fell nerveless to his sides.

"Old chap!" he exclaimed in a voice of bitter regret. "How was I possibly to tell that? Perhaps it's not too late now!" And he bounded on to the sandbags, but there was no sign of Anton van Drissel.

For a moment they leaned side by side over the parapet, trying to penetrate the darkness that once more enveloped No Man's Land, and then as Captain Bob came hurrying up, blowing his whistle for all he was worth to recall the retiring platoon, Dennis drew his own, and the shrill signal brought the men tumbling back again into the fire trench.

"Line up!" cried the captain as Dennis and Dan, both speaking at once, told him what had happened.

"I knew something had gone wrong," said Bob bitterly. "What a thousand pities the skunk got clear! Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk, and the artillery's on them now. Do you hear that?"

The momentary lull was broken by a tremendous booming from our guns in the rear, and a hurricane of shells began to burst on the German front line trench and the ground beyond it, a steady, systematic bombardment, which grew in volume and increased in intensity.

"Do I hear it?" shouted Dennis. "One can't help hearing it. What do you mean?"

"I mean," replied his brother, making himself heard with considerable difficulty, "that it is the beginning of the artillery preparation, which will continue day and night without ceasing for the next week. After that the great push is coming. That is what I mean!"

The 18-pounders, the 9.2's, the big howitzers farther to the rear—guns of every kind and calibre blended in one infernal concert, which extended for more than eighty miles, from the Yser to the Somme.

"If those Brandenburgers are wise they'll stay where they are to-night," said the Australian corporal. "Hallo, Fritz! Why, Dennis, here's your prisoner, after all."

A white-faced man, crying "Kamerad!" at the top of his voice, climbed in over the sandbags, trembling like a leaf, and Dennis saw that it was indeed the Saxon he had captured at the bottom of the crump-hole over there.

"I told you I would come," said the prisoner. "I am sick of it all—it is horrible. The Emperor is a man without heart. He takes good care to keep out of harm's way, and sends us to our death by the thousand. Himmel! Look! This was my company!" And he lifted his quivering hands as he saw the litter of corpses that filled the trench from side to side. "We are told that you kill all prisoners and all the wounded, but I do not believe that. They feed us on lies and very little bread, while our officers have wine and even pianos in their dug-outs," and the nerve-shattered man burst into tears.

Captain Bob was in the act of giving instructions to one of his sergeants to pass the deserter to the rear, when another "brass hat" came along the trench—the genuine article this time, and one of the best, for it was Brigadier-General Dashwood himself, followed by his brigade-major.

The brigadier was a thick-set, soldierly looking man, fit as a fiddle in spite of the grey hairs which mingled with his brown moustache, and his eyes lit up as he saw his two sons still safe and well.

He was not one of those officers who paid a hasty visit now and then to the lines, ducking his head when his guide said, "Duck, sir!" where the wall of the traverse was low, and who, after a perfunctory glance about him through a gold-rimmed monocle went back again to headquarters, "having seen nothing and learned nothing." General Dashwood knew that he had a certain section of the front to defend, and did his work thoroughly, and the whisper often ran along the fire trench by night as well as day: "Look out, boys, here's the brigadier!"

He listened to all they had to tell him, and questioned the deserter closely, turning to his brigade-major several times and exchanging a meaning nod.

"The battalion has done very well, but that is nothing new," he said with a proud smile. "Still, it won't hurt them to hear my opinion. You'd better come with me, Dennis; there'll be nothing more doing here to-night, and I want someone to go to Divisional Headquarters with a message. You'll be back at your post by daylight," and, after picking his way along the trench to the far end and examining the German line carefully through a periscope, he returned, to find the men of Bob's platoon lifting out the dead Saxons and laying them on the reverse side of the parados to await the arrival of the sanitary squad with their picks and shovels.

"Well, so long, old chap," said Dan Dunn, as Dennis passed him. "I've enjoyed my visit. When you look me up I hope we shall be able to give you an equally good time. Fearfully sorry I spoiled your shot."

The cousins shook hands, and as Dennis followed his father and the brigade-major, Bob carried Dan into their dug-out, where he found that Australian panacea for all evils—hot tea.

It was only a short walk to Brigade Headquarters, a couple of cottages by the roadside under the lee of a rising bank which had so far preserved them from the German shells. One red lamp burned there, and a sentinel stood by the doorway, leaning on his rifle.

"I'm sorry you have got that confounded cigarette habit so soon," said Dashwood senior with a dry smile. "But you will find a box on that table, and you can amuse yourself while we get out a report."

Dennis looked round the bare little room, contrasting it with their luxurious home in London. A flagged map was pinned on one wall, some British warms and mackintoshes hung on pegs, a couple of field bedsteads, whose disarranged blankets showed that they had been hastily left when the alarm was given, occupied one end, everything else was bare and comfortless.

Standing in the doorway, Dennis heard the click of a typewriter, and could not help catching some of the report as his father paced backwards and forwards, filling a pipe with his favourite mixture as he dictated.

"Three Saxon battalions delivered a surprise attack at 10.35 to-night, and one of them succeeded in penetrating my first line trench, No. ——, through the failure of a machine-gun, which was put out of action by an H.E.," began the brigadier. "The 2/12th Royal Reedshire Battalion, Platoons 1 and 2, behaved with great gallantry, and scarcely a man of the enemy was left alive. The bodies were lying six deep when I visited the position. Some confusion was caused by a German in British staff uniform making his way along the trench shouting 'Retire!' but I have the honour to report that through the initiative of Second-Lieutenant Dashwood, of the battalion, and Corporal Daniel Dunn, of the Australians, gallantly supported by two privates, whose names I shall forward later on, and who successfully bombed the enemy, the attack completely broke down, and was not supported by the Brandenburg Division, which, I am informed by a prisoner, was waiting in reserve."

When Dennis heard his own name mentioned he stepped out into the darkness with a strange tingling all over him. It seemed like eavesdropping to listen any more, but he knew that proud thrill in his father's voice, and the boy's heart beat high with a great happiness.

Some horses, picketed under the lee of the bank, fidgeted at their shackles, and over everything was the thunder of that incessant bombardment which, as Bob had said, was to go on night and day. He was watching the shrapnel bursting in the distance far over the German lines, where our guns were delivering a barrage fire to isolate the front enemy trenches from food and supports, when the sentry called to him.

"The general is asking for you, sir," said the man, and Dennis stepped back and re-entered the cottage.

"Here you are, my boy," said his father. "You know the way to Divisional Headquarters. There are a couple of motor-cycles standing at the end of the cottage, take your pick and away with you."

"You will find the road has been badly shelled at the next village," said the brigade-major, holding up his map-case and tracing the route Dennis would have to follow. "And here, at this point, the supply column got it rather badly earlier in the night—there may be wagons still lying about. When you've passed that it's all plain sailing."

"Do I report to you, sir, on my return?" inquired the boy.

"Yes," said the brigadier. "Then you can leave the bike and rejoin your company. I could have 'phoned this, but it's all experience, and may stand you in good stead."

Perhaps the brigade-major, as he nodded a cheery good night, understood the father's wish to place the youngster out of danger, if it were only for a few hours, but as Dennis swung into the saddle and waved his hand, neither he nor the brigadier foresaw the things that were going to happen.

The road was a fairly straight one, and Dennis found the shell holes without difficulty, shutting off his engine only just in time as he plunged down into the first of them like Quintus Curtius of old.

"Hang it, that's a bad start," he laughed when he found the machine had sustained no injury, but it took him a good five minutes to get it up again, and after that he was more careful.

A little farther on he encountered a supply column of the A.S.C., and coasted by them without much difficulty, until at last a red lantern gleaming above a green one told him that he had reached Divisional Headquarters.

There he found the staff busy, and a good deal of quiet bustle as the various brigade commanders' reports arrived, and a telegraphic operator in a shell-proof dug-out was transmitting the night's news to Sir Douglas Haig at——.

Dennis handed in his dispatch, which was duly read by the lieutenant-general commanding the division, a florid officer with a white moustache, who held the communication in one hand while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the other.

"Where is the officer from General Dashwood?" he inquired suddenly, and word was passed for Dennis.

The divisional general looked him up and down for a moment, and his brow cleared. "If you are not wanted immediately I should like you to carry a query for me to the officer commanding the brigade on the right of the division," he said. "There is something I do not quite understand in his report, and unfortunately, the field wire has broken down somewhere and we can't get through to him. Is your machine in order?"

"Yes, sir," said Dennis, and the general turned to a shorthand clerk.

"Just take this down, will you? And type it out quickly," he said, and he rapidly dictated to the man.

"Captain Thompson," he said when he had finished, "kindly explain to this officer how he is to reach Donaldson," and the staff captain took the young lieutenant to the large scale map at the end of the room, where everything was marked out in squares, each numbered and lettered.

The captain was lucid, and Dennis quick of intelligence, and in less than five minutes from entering the room he was turning his cycle round and darting off on his new mission.