Читать книгу On the right of the British line - Gilbert Nobbs - Страница 18

I shall never forget the day I made my first inspection of billets.

While walking through the village street I noticed a structure which appeared to be inviting some stray breath of wind to cause it to surrender its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of rubbish.

Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had served the purpose of a covering for cattle, for I believe cattle are not very particular in northern France.

It is quite within reason to suppose that, with a view of misleading his cattle into a false sense of security, the farmer may have called it a barn. It had never been an expensive structure, nor did it give any evidence of having ever laid claim to architectural beauty.

But its simplicity of construction was a marvel of ingenuity. Yes, it was a barn, but who but a genius of modern arts would have thought it possible to build even a barn by the simple but equally economical method of erecting a number of props and simply sticking mud between?

But the stability of the barn was, as might reasonably be supposed, subject to "wind and weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully deploring its advancing years, and anxiously waiting an early opportunity to rest its weary limbs in a well-earned rest in a shapeless heap on the ground that gave it birth.

How very strange! Out of the numerous holes in the wall I saw familiar faces, while inside a score of men were laughing and joking, playing cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though they were enjoying the freedom and comfort of a West End club.

"But what are you men doing here?" I asked.

"This is our billet, sir," answered a lance corporal.

"Your billet? Do you mean you sleep here?"

"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon."

"Comfortable?"

"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches."

"A bit draughty, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have to get used to it."

"But can't you find a better place than this, and with more room? You seem to be almost on top of each other."

"There is no other place available. The men are quite satisfied, sir."

I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent chaps! And yet, when they were in comfortable billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts at Fovant, they were far more particular; when they were recruits and spent their first night in the army, they looked with dismay at the prospect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a well-built modern English house.

War makes men, and hardships breed content!

I will pass over our life in the trenches in this part of the line, but an incident worth recording occurred while we were marching back after five days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches facing Gommecourt Wood.

It is interesting, by the way, to watch the men leaving the trenches for their rest billets, for, in addition to their packs, they carry many an additional article of private belongings to add to their comfort during these tedious days of duty, and they emerge with all kinds of curious packages and extra articles of clothing strapped or tied to their equipment. They were covered with mud and clay before they left the front-line trenches, but the long journey along endless communication trenches on their way out, gathered up an additional covering of clay and mud through their bulky attire, until they resembled a curious assembly of moving débris.

But the incident I have referred to occurred just as we were approaching a village.

An observation balloon was being drawn down, but when within a hundred feet of the ground suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly and drift towards the German lines.

I halted the men, and we watched in breathless suspense the tragedy which was about to take place before our eyes. There was some one in the basket of the balloon.

It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save it! Presently the occupant was seen to lean over the side and throw out a quantity of books and papers.

Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a great height before the next sensation caused us to thrill with amazement.

Something dropped like a stone from the basket and then, with a sudden check, a parachute opened, and a man was seen dangling from it. When he dropped, the balloon must have been many thousand feet in the air, and both balloon and parachute continued to drift towards the German lines.

Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes went up and soared around the balloon, evidently bent on its destruction.

As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of smoke! A bomb had struck the balloon, but seemed to have no effect.

The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns.

The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a flash of fire clean through the centre, a volume of blue smoke, and then it buckled in the middle. The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased in volume until the balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning and shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, anxious eyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had approached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.

Both armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no shot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.

It was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall. It seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it reaching the ground in No Man's Land.

As it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing violence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees. So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the parachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.

Next day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight miles back of the line.

We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.

The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.

The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.