All In It K(1) Carries On by John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay)
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John Hay Beith (AKA: Ian Hay) >> All In It K(1) Carries On
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"Er--_ou est la pauvre petite chose?_"
Madame promptly opened a door, and displayed a little girl in bed--a
very flushed and feverish little girl.
Cockerell grinned sympathetically at the patient, to that young lady's
obvious gratification; and turned to the mother.
"_Je suis tres--triste_," he said; "_j'ai grand misericorde. Je ne
placerai pas de soldats ici. Bon jour!_"
By this time he was in the street again. He saluted politely and
departed, followed by the grateful regards of Madame.
No special difficulties were encountered at the next few houses. The
ladies at the house-door were all polite; many of them were most
friendly; but naturally each was anxious to get as few men and as many
officers as possible--except the proprietess of an _estaminel_, who
offered to accommodate the entire regiment. However, with a little
tact here and a little firmness there, Master Cockerell succeeded in
distributing "C" Company among some dozen houses. One old gentleman,
with a black alpaca cap and a six-days beard, proprietor of a
lofty establishment at the corner of the street, proved not only
recalcitrant, but abusive. With him Cockerell dealt promptly.
"_Ca suffit_!" he announced. "_Montres-moi votre grenier!_"
The old man, grumbling, led the way up numerous rickety staircases
to the inevitable loft under the tiles. This proved to be a noble
apartment thirty feet long. From wall to wall stretched innumerable
strings.
"We can get a whole platoon in here," said Cockerell contentedly.
"Tell him, Alphonso. These people," he explained to Sergeant M'Nab,
"always dislike giving up their lofts, because they hang their laundry
there in winter. However, the old boy must lump it. After all, we are
in this country for his health, not ours; and he gets paid for every
man who sleeps here. That fixes 'C' Company. Now for 'D'! The other
side of the street this time."
Quarters were found in due course for "D" Company; after which
Cockerell discovered a vacant building-site which would serve
for transport lines. An empty garage was marked down for the
Quartermaster's ration store, and the Quartermaster-Sergeant promptly
faded into its recesses with a grateful sigh. An empty shop in the
Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, conveniently adjacent to Battalion
Headquarters, was appropriated for that gregarious band, the
regimental signallers and telephone section; while a suitable home for
the Anarchists, or Bombers, together with their stock-in-trade, was
found in the basement of a remote dwelling on the outskirts of the
area.
After this, Lieutenant Cockerell, left alone with Alphonso and the
orderly in charge of his horse, heaved a sigh of exhaustion and
transferred his attention from his notebook to his watch.
"That finishes the rank and file," he said. "I breakfasted at four
this morning, and the battalion won't arrive for a couple of hours
yet. Alphonso, I am going to have an omelette somewhere. I shall want
you in half an hour exactly. Don't go wandering off for the rest of
the day, pinching soft billets for yourself and the Sergeant-Major and
your other pals, as you usually do!"
Alphonso saluted guiltily--evidently the astute Cockerell had "touched
the spot"--and was turning away, when suddenly the billeting officer's
eye encountered an illegible scrawl at the very foot of his list.
"Stop a moment, Alphonso! I have forgotten those condemned
machine-gunners, as usual. _Strafe_ them! Come on! Once more into the
breach, Alphonso! There is a little side-alley down here that we have
not tried."
The indefatigable Cockerell turned down the Rue Gambetta, followed by
Alphonso, faint but resigned.
"Here is the very place!" announced Cockerell almost at once. "This
house, Number Five. We can put the gunners and their little guns into
that stable at the back, and the officer can have a room in the house
itself. _Sonnez_, for the last time before lunch!"
The door was opened by a pleasant-faced young woman of about
thirty, who greeted Cockerell--tartan is always popular with French
ladies--with a beaming smile, but shook her head regretfully upon
seeing the _billet de logement_ in his hand. The inevitable duet with
Alphonso followed. Presently Alphonso turned to his superior.
"Madame is ver' sorry, sair, but an _officier_ is here already."
"Show me the _officier_!" replied the prosaic Cockerell.
The duet was resumed.
"Madame say," announced Alphonso presently, "that the _officier_ is
not here now; but he will return."
"So will Christmas! Meanwhile I am going to put an _Emma Gee_ officer
in here."
Alphonso's desperate attempt to translate the foregoing idiom into
French was interrupted by Madame's retirement into the house, whither
she beckoned Cockerell to follow her. In the front room she produced a
frayed sheet of paper, which she proffered with an apologetic smile.
The paper said:--
_This billet is entirely reserved for the Supply Officer of this
District. It is not to be occupied by troops passing through the town.
By Order_.
Lieutenant Cockerell whistled softly and vindictively through his
teeth.
"Well," he said, "for consummate and concentrated nerve, give me the
underlings of the A.S.C.! This pot-bellied blighter not only butts
into an area which doesn't belong to him, but actually leaves a chit
to warn people off the grass even when he isn't here! He hasn't
signed the document, I observe. That means that he is a newly joined
subaltern, trying to get mistaken for a Brass Hat! I'll fix _him_!"
With great stateliness Lieutenant Cockerell tore the offending
screed into four portions, to the audible concern of Madame. But the
Lieutenant smiled reassuringly upon her.
"_Je vous donnerai un autre, vous savez_," he assured her.
He sat down at the table, tore a leaf from his Field Service Pocket
Book, and wrote:--
_The Supply Officer of the District is at liberty to occupy this
billet only at such times as it is not required by the troops of the
Combatant Services.
Signed, F.J. Cockerell,
Lieut. & Asst. Adj.,
7th B. & W. Highes_.
"That's a pretty nasty one!" he observed with relish. Then, having
pinned the insulting document conspicuously to the mantelpiece, he
observed to the mystified lady of the house:--
"_Voila, Madame. Si l'officier reviendra, je le verrai moi-meme, avec
grand plaisir. Bon jour_!"
And with this dark saying Sparrow Cockerell took his departure.
II
The Battalion, headed by their tatterdemalion pipers, stumped into the
town in due course, and were met on the outskirts by the billeting
party, who led the various companies to their appointed place. After
inspecting their new quarters, and announcing with gloomy satisfaction
that they were the worst, dirtiest, and most uncomfortable yet
encountered, everybody settled down in the best place he could find,
and proceeded to make himself remarkably snug.
Battalion Headquarters and the officers of "A" Company were billeted
in an imposing mansion which actually boasted a bathroom. It is true
that there was no water, but this deficiency was soon made good by a
string of officers' servants bearing buckets. Beginning with Colonel
Kemp, who was preceded by an orderly bearing a small towel and a large
loofah, each officer performed a ceremonial ablution; and it was a
collection of what Major Wagstaffe termed "bright and bonny young
faces" which collected round the Mess table at seven o'clock.
It was in every sense a gala meal. Firstly, it was weeks since any one
(except Second Lieutenant M'Corquodale, newly joined, and addressed,
for painfully obvious reasons, as "Tich") had found himself at table
in an apartment where it was possible to stand upright. Secondly,
the Mess President had coaxed glass tumblers out of the ancient
_concierge_; and only those who have drunk from enamelled ironware
for weeks on end can appreciate the pure joy of escape from the
indeterminate metallic flavour which such vessels impart to all
beverages. Thirdly, these same tumblers were filled to the brim
with inferior but exhilarating champagne--purchased, as they
euphemistically put it in the Supply Column, "locally." Lastly, the
battalion had several months of hard fighting behind it, probably
a full month's rest before it, and the conscience of duty done and
recognition earned floating like a halo above it. For the moment
memories of Nightmare Wood and the Kidney Bean Redoubt--more
especially the latter--were effaced. Even the sorrowful gaps in the
ring round the table seemed less noticeable.
The menu, too, was almost pretentious. First came the _hors
d'oeuvres_--a tin of sardines. This was followed by what the
Mess Corporal described as a savoury omelette, but which the
Second-in-Command condemned as "a regrettable incident."
"It is false economy," he observed dryly to the Mess President, "to
employ Mark One [1] eggs as anything but hand-grenades."
[Footnote 1: In the British army each issue of arms or equipment
receives a distinctive "Mark." Mark I denotes the earliest issue.]
However, the tide of popular favour turned with the haggis,
contributed by Lieutenant Angus M'Lachlan, from a parcel from home.
Even the fact that the Mess cook, an inexperienced aesthete from
Islington, had endeavoured to tone down the naked repulsiveness of the
dainty with discreet festoons of tinned macaroni, failed to arouse
the resentment of a purely Scottish Mess. The next course--the beef
ration, hacked into the inevitable gobbets and thinly disguised by a
sprinkling of curry powder--aroused no enthusiasm; but the unexpected
production of a large tin of Devonshire cream, contributed by Captain
Bobby Little, relieved the canned peaches of their customary
monotony. Last of all came a savoury--usually described as _the_
savoury--consisting of a raft of toast per person, each raft carrying
an abundant cargo of fried potted meat, and provided with a passenger
in the shape of a recumbent sausage.
A compound of grounds and dish-water, described by the optimistic Mess
Corporal as coffee, next made its appearance, mitigated by a bottle of
Cointreau and a box of Panatellas; and the Mess turned itself to more
intellectual refreshment. A heavy and long-overdue mail had been found
waiting at St. Gregoire. Letters had been devoured long ago. Now, each
member of the Mess leaned back in his chair, straightened his weary
legs under the table, and settled down, cigar in mouth, to the perusal
of the _Spectator_ or the _Tatler_, according to rank and literary
taste.
Colonel Kemp, unfolding a week-old _Times_, looked over his glasses at
his torpid disciples.
"Where is young Sandeman?" he inquired.
Young Sandeman was the Adjutant.
"He went out to the Orderly Room, sir, five minutes ago," replied
Bobby Little.
"I only want to give him to-morrow's Orders. No doubt he'll be back
presently. I may as well mention to you fellows that I propose
to allow the men three clear days' rest, except for bathing and
re-clothing. After that we must do Company Drill, good and hard, so as
to polish up the new draft, who are due to-morrow. I am going to
start a bombing-school, too: at least seventy-five per cent. of the
Battalion ought to pass the test before we go back to the line.
However, we need not rush things. We should be here in peace for at
least a month. We must get up some sports, and I think it would be a
sound scheme to have a singsong one Saturday night. I was just saying,
Sandeman,"--this to the Adjutant, who reentered the room at that
moment,--"that it would be a sound--"
The Adjutant laid a pink field-telegraph slip before his superior.
"This has just come in from Brigade Headquarters, sir," he said. "I
have sent for the Sergeant-Major."
The Colonel adjusted his glasses and read the despatch. A deathly,
sickening silence reigned in the room. Then he looked up.
"I am afraid I was a bit previous," he said quietly. "The Royal
Stickybacks have lost the Kidney Bean, and we are detailed to go
up and retake it. Great compliment to the regiment, but a trifle
mistimed! You young fellows had better go to bed. Parade at 4 A.M.,
sharp! Good-night! Come along to the Orderly Room, Sandeman."
The door closed, and the Mess, grinding the ends of their cigars into
their coffee-cups, heaved themselves resignedly to their aching feet.
"There ain't," quoted Major Wagstaffe, "no word in the blooming
language for it!"
III
The Kidney Bean Redoubt is the key to a very considerable sector of
trenches.
It lies just behind a low ridge. The two horns of the bean are drawn
back out of sight of the enemy, but the middle swells forward over the
skyline and commands an extensive view of the country beyond. Direct
observation of artillery fire is possible: consequently an armoured
observation post has been constructed here, from which gunner officers
can direct the fire of their batteries with accuracy and elegance.
Lose the Kidney Bean, and the boot is on the other leg. The enemy has
the upper ground now: he can bring observed artillery fire to bear
upon all our tenderest spots behind the line. He can also enfilade our
front-line trenches.
Well, as already stated, the Twenty-Second Royal Stickybacks had
lost the Kidney Bean. They were a battalion of recent formation,
stout-hearted fellows all, but new to the refinements of intensive
trench warfare. When they took over the sector, they proceeded to
leave undone various vital things which the Hairy Jocks had always
made a point of doing, and to do various unnecessary things which the
Hairy Jocks had never done. The observant Hun promptly recognised that
he was faced by a fresh batch of opponents, and, having carefully
studied the characteristics of the newcomers, prescribed and
administered an exemplary dose of frightfulness. He began by tickling
up the Stickybacks with an unpleasant engine called the _Minenwerfer_,
which despatches a large sausage-shaped projectile in a series of
ridiculous somersaults, high over No Man's Land into the enemy's
front-line trench, where it explodes and annihilates everything
in that particular bay. Upon these occasions one's only chance of
salvation is to make a rapid calculation as to the bay into which
the sausage is going to fall, and then double speedily round a
traverse--or, if possible, two traverses--into another. It is an
exhilarating pastime, but presents complications when played by a
large number of persons in a restricted space, especially when the
persons aforesaid are not unanimous as to the ultimate landing-place
of the projectile.
After a day and a night of these aerial torpedoes the Hun proceeded
to an intensive artillery bombardment. He had long coveted the
Kidney Bean, and instinct told him that he would never have a better
opportunity of capturing it than now. Accordingly, two hours before
dawn, the Redoubt was subjected to a sudden, simultaneous, and
converging fire from all the German artillery for many miles round,
the whole being topped up with a rain of those crowning instruments of
demoralisation, gas-shells. At the same time an elaborate curtain of
shrapnel and high explosive was let down behind the Redoubt, to
serve the double purpose of preventing either the sending up of
reinforcements or the temporary withdrawal of the garrison.
At the first streak of dawn the bombardment was switched off, as if by
a tap; the curtain fire was redoubled in volume; and a massed attack
swept across the disintegrated wire into the shattered and pulverised
Redoubt. Other attacks were launched on either flank; but these were
obvious blinds, intended to prevent a too concentrated defence of the
Kidney Bean. The Royal Stickybacks--what was left of them--put up a
tough fight; but half of them were lying dead or buried, or both,
before the assault was launched, and the rest were too dazed and
stupefied by noise and chlorine gas to withstand--much less to
repel--the overwhelming phalanx that was hurled against them. One
by one they went down, until the enemy troops, having swamped the
Redoubt, gathered themselves up in a fresh wave and surged towards
the reserve-line trenches, four hundred yards distant. At this point,
however, they met a strong counter-attack, launched from the Brigade
Reserve, and after heavy fighting were bundled back into the Redoubt
itself. Here the German machine-guns had staked out a defensive line,
and the German retirement came to a standstill.
Meanwhile a German digging party, many hundred strong, had been
working madly in No Man's Land, striving to link up the newly acquired
ground with the German lines. By the afternoon the Kidney Bean was not
only "reversed and consolidated," but was actually included in the
enemy's front trench system. Altogether a well-planned and admirably
executed little operation.
Forty-eight hours later the Kidney Bean Redoubt was recaptured, and
remains in British hands to this day. Many arms of the Service
took honourable part in the enterprise--heavy guns, field guns,
trench-mortars, machine-guns; Sappers and Pioneers; Infantry in
various capacities. But this narrative is concerned only with the part
played by the Seventh Hairy Jocks.
"Sorry to pull you back from rest, Colonel," said the Brigadier, when
the commander of the Hairy Jocks reported; "but the Divisional General
considers that the only feasible way to hunt the Boche from the Kidney
Bean is to bomb him out of it. That means trench-fighting, pure and
simple. I have called you up because you fellows know the ins and outs
of the Kidney Bean as no one else does. The Brigade who are in the
line just now are quite new to the place. Here is an aeroplane
photograph of the Redoubt, as at present constituted. Tell off your
own bombing parties; make your own dispositions; send me a copy of
your provisional orders; and I will fit my plan in with yours.
The Corps Commander has promised to back you with every gun,
trench-mortar, culverin, and arquebus in his possession."
In due course Battalion Orders were issued and approved. They dealt
with operations most barbarous amid localities of the most homelike
sound. Number Nine Platoon, for instance (Commander Lieutenant
Cockerell), were to proceed in single file, carrying so many grenades
per man, up Charing Cross Road, until stopped by the barrier which the
enemy were understood to have erected in Trafalgar Square, where
a bombing-post and at least one machine-gun would probably be
encountered. At this point they were to wait until Trafalgar Square
had been suitably dealt with by a trench-mortar. (Here followed a
paragraph addressed exclusively to the Trench-Mortar Officer.) After
this the bombers of Number Three Platoon would bomb their way across
the Square and up the Strand. Another party would clear Northumberland
Avenue, while a Lewis gun raked Whitehall. And so on. Every detail
was thought out, down to the composition of the parties which were
to "clean up" afterwards--that is, extract the reluctant Boche from
various underground fastnesses well known to the extractors. The whole
enterprise was then thoroughly rehearsed in some dummy trenches behind
the line, until every one knew his exact part. Such is modern warfare.
Next day the Kidney Bean Redoubt was in British hands again.
The Hun--what was left of him after an intensive bombardment of
twenty-four hours--had betaken himself back over the ridge, _via_ the
remnants of his two new communication trenches, to his original front
line. The two communication trenches themselves were blocked and
sandbagged, and were being heavily supervised by a pair of British
machine-guns. Fighting in the Redoubt itself had almost ceased, though
a humorous sergeant, followed by acolytes bearing bombs, was still
"combing out" certain residential districts in the centre of the
maze. Ever and anon he would stoop down at the entrance of some deep
dug-out, and bawl--
"Ony mair doon there? Come away, Fritz! I'll gie ye five seconds. Yin,
Twa, Three--"
Then, with a rush like a bolt of rabbits, two or three close-cropped,
grimy Huns would scuttle up from below and project themselves from one
of the exits; to be taken in charge by grinning Caledonians wearing
"tin hats" very much awry, and escorted back through the barrage to
the "prisoners' base" in rear.
All through the day, amidst unremitting shell fire and local
counter-attack, the Hairy Jocks reconsolidated the Kidney Bean; and
they were so far successful that when they handed over the work to
another battalion at dusk, the parapet was restored, the machine-guns
were in position, and a number of "knife-rest" barbed-wire
entanglements were lying just behind the trench, ready to be hoisted
over the parapet and joined together in a continuous defensive line as
soon as the night was sufficiently dark.
One by one the members of Number Nine Platoon squelched--for it had
rained hard all day--back to the reserve line. They were utterly
exhausted, and still inclined to feel a little aggrieved at having
been pulled out from rest; but they were well content. They had done
the State some service, and they knew it; and they knew that the
higher powers knew it too. There would be some very flattering reading
in Divisional Orders in a few days' time.
Meanwhile, their most pressing need was for something to eat. To be
sure, every man had gone into action that morning carrying his day's
rations. But the British soldier, improvident as the grasshopper,
carries his day's rations in one place, and one place only--his
stomach. The Hairy Jocks had eaten what they required at their
extremely early breakfast: the residue thereof they had abandoned.
About midnight Master Cockerell, in obedience to a most welcome order,
led the remnants of his command, faint but triumphant, back from the
reserve line to a road junction two miles in rear, known as Dead Dog
Corner. Here the Battalion was to _rendezvous_, and march back by easy
stages to St. Gregoire. Their task was done.
But at the cross-roads Number Nine Platoon found no Battalion: only a
solitary subaltern, with his orderly. This young Casabianca informed
Cockerell that he, Second Lieutenant Candlish, had been left behind to
"bring in stragglers."
"Stragglers?" exclaimed the infuriated Cockerell. "Do we look like
stragglers?"
"No," replied the youthful Candlish frankly; "you look more like
sweeps. However, you had better push on. The Battalion isn't far
ahead. The order is to march straight back to St. Gregoire and
re-occupy former billets."
"What about rations?"
"Rations? The Quartermaster was waiting here for us when we
_rendezvoused_, and every man had a full ration and a tot of rum."
(Number Nine Platoon cleared their parched throats expectantly.) "But
I fancy he has gone on with the column. However, if you leg it you
should catch them up. They can't be more than two miles ahead. So
long!"
IV
But the task was hopeless. Number Nine Platoon had been bombing,
hacking, and digging all day. Several of them were slightly
wounded--the serious cases had been taken off long ago by the
stretcher-bearers--and Cockerell's own head was still dizzy from the
fumes of a German gas-shell.
He lined up his disreputable paladins in the darkness, and spoke--
"Sergeant M'Nab, how many men are present?"
"Eighteen, sirr." The platoon had gone into action thirty-four strong.
"How many men are deficient of an emergency ration? I can make a good
guess, but you had better find out."
Five minutes later the Sergeant reported. Cockerell's guess was
correct. The British private has only one point of view about the
portable property of the State. To him, as an individual, the sacred
emergency ration is an unnecessary encumbrance, and the carrying
thereof a "fatigue." Consequently, when engaged in battle, one of the
first (of many) things which he jettisons is this very ration. When
all is over, he reports with unctuous solemnity that the provender
in question has been blown out of his haversack by a shell. The
Quartermaster-Sergeant writes it off as "lost owing to the exigencies
of military service," and indents for another.
Lieutenant Cockerell's haversack contained a packet of meat-lozenges
and about half a pound of chocolate. These were presented to the
Sergeant.
"Hand these round as far as they will go, Sergeant," said Cockerell.
"They'll make a mouthful a man, anyhow. Tell the platoon to lie down
for ten minutes; then we'll push off. It's only fifteen miles. We
ought to make it by breakfast-time ..."
Slowly, mechanically, all through the winter night the victors hobbled
along. Cockerell led the way, carrying the rifle of a man with a
wounded arm. Occasionally he checked his bearings with map and
electric torch. Sergeant M'Nab, who, under a hirsute and attenuated
exterior, concealed a constitution of ferro-concrete and the heart of
a lion, brought up the rear, uttering fallacious assurances to the
faint-hearted as to the shortness of the distance now to be covered,
and carrying two rifles.
The customary halts were observed. At ten minutes to four the men
flung themselves down for the third time. They had covered about seven
miles, and were still eight or nine from St. Gregoire. The everlasting
constellation of Verey lights still rose and fell upon the eastern
horizon behind them, but the guns were silent.
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