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Fall in, Ghosts

Selected War Prose

Carcanet Press Ltd

Girding Our Loins

Béthune. The long and slatternly train, scarcely in motion for the past twelve hours, stopped dead, and the carriages in succession gave that sudden backward mule-kick which gives troop-trains one of their unique charms, jolting us out of our singularly horrible counterfeit sleep. Yawning and rusty, we collected our trappings and jumped out on the track. I had no more idea than the man in the moon how far we were from the line – from one to thirty miles I decided! A few French porters and station-supporters, an already besieged Staff Captain, and vast numbers of innocents abroad like ourselves were collaborating in uproar, and several engines were artlessly shunting and shrieking alongside. Making sure of our valises we joined the avalanche with which the betabbed encyclopaedia was dealing, and later in the morning got to know that our objective was Locon and that the toy tramway would shortly take us there. We humped our valises, packs and lesser freights off the station, to find the steam car waiting across the street: but on learning that its departure would be later than sooner, D —, my companion, decided on a coffee first. As our informant was the driver of the car, a RE, this seemed a safe and seasonable plan; yet hardly had we begun on our 'elevenses' when a series of diabolical hootings warned us outside and we saw the iron monster (Ph. Gibbs) departing. Our goods were on board, and so we managed to catch up: but it was thus I became aware of the specious nature of the Sapper.

We now went rumbling and banging down a cobbled road (the first time I had seen this arrangement of light rail track alongside the highway), and learned with reassurance that Locon was not a hotbed of strife. The Tommies inside the car paraded much conventional wit about its speed, upholstery, and shape, and to my gratitude baited the conductor – 'Hey mate are we anywhere near Manchester?' ... 'Did you make it yourself?' ... 'Wot a shime robbin' the chile of 'is playtoy.' Their quota of good spirits was welcome after that angular night in the windowless carriage. Locon proved to be no great way off, and soon we were offloaded with our chattels at a sort of loft, variegated with chromatic signboards and legends, which was no less than the Brigade Office. Our next job was easy; our valises were lying in the mud and we sat on them 'pending the arrival of the Battalion Mess-cart', as pompously instructed by a gilded but scorbutic youth who rejoiced in three stars and tabs gorget. The day was dank and depressing.

Presently we were one each side of the mess-cart driver, 'going up to the line' – how often had I heard, and yet never really heard, the words before! The countryside had a harmless, parcelled, thrifty look; but my incipient idyllic view of war (hope fathering thought) was shattered by the driver, who said, 'Quartermaster were coming round this corner last night and Fritz sent over fifteen shells. Blew 'is 'orse onesided, one of 'em did.' This kept me ruminating awhile, through those rainy well-tilled lowlands checkered with red and white farms, colonnades of poplars and glistening shrines, till an instantaneous tremendous roar on our left nearly tumbled D — and myself out of the cart. The driver (one of the best of Sussex men, as I was to know better later on) was mildly amused, though the horse shied. "Tis only a new six-inch battery, sir, our party have brought in.' I had thought it was the Boche throwing a medium earthquake at us: and resolved to avoid our own guns as much as the enemy's.

We now entered a hamlet, Le Touret, with one or two estaminets and a YMCA hut; and drove into a farmyard, where children and chicken peacefully engaged in the mud demonstrated how far we were from war's alarms. (The heavy guns fired over this and neighbour establishments.) Alighting, we were hailed in glucose, soothing tones by a Padre, who looked forth from a sort of horse-box. Yes, we were new officers joining the Battalion – would be awfully glad to come in and have a wash – no, we hadn't had tea. We were stoking up with generous spreads of Australian Quince and listening to the Padre's eulogy of certain officers (whom we later found to be like himself members of the Church of Rome) when the Quartermaster burst in upon us. He was the jolliest, kindliest old quartermaster that there could be anywhere – he made the little dingy room sparkle with good-natured wit and wisdom. 'Just been to see old Diamond-Dust (field cashier y'know). Pity you boys didn't get here earlier if you wanted some filthy lucre. Golly, there were some people in Béthune today – shouldn't be surprised if there isn't some dirty work coming off. I saw the girl in the boot-shop, Padre – she asked after you. Now you boys, plug in on that tea. Any time you want anything you ask the old Quarterbloke. [Encouraging wink] Why, Padre, haven't you stamped those letters yet? I say that new chestnut charger didn't half show his mettle today – nearly whizzed me into the Hotel de France – then he backed into some Japanese general's perambulator ...' We made a good tea, and cautiously enquired as to our fate.

'The Colonel wants you to go up with the rations tonight,' the Quartermaster remarked, somewhat brutally I thought, having hoped that the matter would be accomplished, like others in the Army, by easy stages. So far, however, apart from the heavy battery referred to, which occasionally bellowed, there was little noise or symptom of war. We took the air. With awe and his conversational laugh, which we later on found was successfully imitated by half the battalion, the Padre pointed out a litter of rusting ironware in a ditch, and informed us that these were old German bombs. This seemed a point of the first interest, but the interest evaporated when he told us in gruesome tones that two transport men had been examining them last week when somehow one went off, seriously wounding both. We now thought these bombs should be interred and criticised anonymous authorities for having failed to do it. Evidently a very slack war. Farther down the road we met an officer who had trained with us in England and arrived in France a fortnight before ourselves. He vaguely recognised us with a Napoleonic nod, and was greeted by genial D — with 'Well, how are things, old thing?' 'Oh, not too bad back here,' condescended the unshaven, clay-cased, and gumbooted one: 'but the line's hell.' He shed upon us two or three looks intended to represent unspeakable memories of anguish and horror: the mercury in my courage thermometer dropped into the bulb. Our tragedian's remarks were now aided and abetted by a sudden outburst of respectable thunderclaps rending the none too distant air; 'Listen to that ... Christ! Fritz crumping Givenchy Keep again ... My God! it's hell.'

This officer had so imbued himself in highly-strung literature, as we remembered, that his soulful monologue lost its savour, and old experience advising us that he would now touch us for 'a small loan' unless we went, we went. But we ran into another acquaintance, a cheerful man whose more palatable opinions on the matter in hand we eagerly expected.

'Hullo you fellows! Fancy you coming out!' (Not very polite, this.) 'Your batt.'s holding the islands – round Canadian Orchard – went in night before last ...' Was this a maritime sector, I wondered? The mention of islands certainly implied aquatic surroundings, and further allusions to 'the Duckboards' led me to imagine a kind of archipelago with enclosures for ducks, no doubt piously preserved by the troops until the return of their owners. This chimera however, was dispelled by D — asking what these islands and duckboards were; which our friend answered by borrowing my notebook and making a sketch thus: –

'You see,' he explained, 'the islands are only isolated posts, just about big enough for a small boy but his dog's tail would have to be showing. There are some duckboards between some of 'em but others you have to flounder through the mud to; anyway you can't move out or in by daylight.' 'Do you mean to say the War has been going on for all these months and we haven't got a communication trench up to the posts?' I murmured with certain qualms. 'Not a ruddy sign of one. Look here, man, I was going up that road the other night to see the posts and I suddenly realised there was nothing to stop the Hun slipping in between the islands and waiting for you. Then he opened up cross fire with two machine guns, bullets smacking up against the trees and ricocheting like hell-fire off the cobbles. I had to flop into the ditch and lie there sopped for twenty minutes while the lead was spacking all round. Well, so long, you chaps: jolly good luck.'

As we walked back brooding over the imminent nastiness of war, a microscopic hut built largely of biscuit tins, and displaying gorgeously wrapped CHOCOLAT POULAIN, silk cards, Venus pencils, Maryland cigarettes at 75 a franc and similar bright bargains, attracted us inside. We bought some Bouchées and Liqueur Chocolates all cautiously concealed in silver paper. The débitante, a well-favoured young lady with jet hair and eyes and the reddest of red cheeks, disclosed that she was a refugee, from Aubers (I confused this with E. A. Poe's Auber for a time), and was of opinion that 'M'sieu la guerre dure trop longtemps – zis war becomm too longh izzent he?'

Considering what we had just been hearing from a by no means hysterical source, and wondering whether we should be groping round uncharted alligator-holes by midnight ourselves, we very heartily concurred.

Entry of the Gladiators

That curious procession, the Transport, was on its way up, and ensconced somewhere in it were two people who anticipated the very worst. On the horizon in front casual yellow lights climbed up broadening, leered maliciously and expired: there were long bursts of machine-gun fire; down south a strafe was warming up and a sinister thudding made itself heard and, even at this distance of perhaps a dozen miles, felt in the air. Through the shutting darkness a low damp wind came whispering, causing D — to murmur something about unshriven spirits, and a facetious driver to bawl, 'Wind favourable for whizzbangs tonight, Will?' Will, however, had sunk into a hypnotic doze behind his monotonous trotting mules, and made no answer. The column rattled ahead without any obstruction (those were halcyon days for the Transport). At last the Quartermaster, after seeing the convoy on the right road, left us to the mercies of the Transport Sergeant and departed with much good humour, spurring his animal, to take the CO up his 'Daily Prevaricator'. I was puffing along in my British Warm and pack, and was somewhat perturbed by the behaviour of the mules behind; they kept nosing forward by my shoulder to chat about something which I couldn't understand. No doubt they gathered I was a new draft. We passed a colony of half-ruined houses, with sacks stretched partway over some windows and lights glaring pleasantly from all. I was told these were the haunts of gunners, and miscellaneous outcries added the information that they were playing house.

Shortly after we turned on a side road and came across a kind of open-air smoking concert, standing or sitting in groups, which now converged upon the waggons as they drew up with cries of 'Transport up, boys!' and 'Any mail tonight?' The social gathering having thus turned into a Ration Party, the business of handing out mysterious sandbags – 'B Company Details', '23 Island', '12 Platoon Cover Trench' – was hastily proceeded with: all were presently piled aboard four low trucks on a light railway line, and after domestic parleyings ('Had a letter from Char Muggins today – he's a lucky bounder – in Eastbourne. Coo! some people don't half seem to strike lucky ...') good-nights were exchanged and the emptied transport noisily made off for Le Touret. We leant our shoulders to a ration truck and started afresh. The simple-sounding matter of pushing a truck along a trench tramway is rather complex on a dark and/or dirty night. Special adroitness is necessary, and an instinct for varying the length of one's pace, to keep stepping on the metal sleepers and to avoid the chasms between. This cat-like tread, too frequently rewarded with a barked shin, or bootfull of icy slime, must be combined with frantic energy in propelling the truck, particularly on wooden rails. Add to this, the probability of a sudden visitation of bullets or five-nines: which you are pensively brooding on when your trolley jolts off the track or disappears into a yawning pit in front, scattering its cargo. With indescribable labour and language this is remedied and you move on, when sudden looming figures with long strides and short tempers begin to scuffle past and grimly remark that the rest of the battalion's coming on behind. These have barely passed, you are just congratulating yourself, when an interminable stream of displeased and ejaculatory Jocks repeat the act – coming off working party. There are also people pushing trucks down the track ... Yet even evil journeys of this type have an end, and at last we came to the tramhead. The rationeers shouldered their loads, overturned their trucks beside the track, and vanished through the dark in different directions. We attached ourselves to the Headquarters party, distinguished by their stock phrase 'O la la!'; and were led through an orchard and over two foot-bridges, when I noticed three or four insects of an unfamiliar kind whip past with a whining 'Bizzz' – bullets! I bustled, and behold! we came under the lee of an apparently gigantic breastwork. Here I felt I should be able to study these random shots with more comfort; but first of all we had to report our arrival.

The Colonel, grey and evidently an Anglo-Indian, was sitting with the Adjutant, in a small sandbag hutch barely holding a rough table on which were a bowl of oranges, some maps, and three candles, all weaving winding-sheets. Ceiling and walls were decently veiled with canvas, behind which there seemed to be occasional scurryings, scratchings, and squeaks. The CO addressed us kindly but the Adjutant already eyed me with evident disesteem. From the Colonel's remarks it appeared that we were the saviours of the battalion, the first new officers since it came out two months earlier; D — was allotted to A Company and myself to C, who by great good fortune were in support. So we were given guides and once more tramped away. My temporary home was no great distance off, and after stumbling along various trenches I was urged through an aperture screened with sacking into a small and stuffy dugout. My new Company Commander, a fair-headed youth evidently no more than twenty years of age, but to my inward surprise possessing three stars, was in the middle of a profane argument with his three subalterns, and I hardly felt sure whether his 'Well, what the hell –?' was in reference to his subject or my unlooked-for apparition. However, he elucidated my name and business, imparted those of himself and the other officers, and raised his voice in an elongated shriek 'Mess!' From without a hoarse responsive grunt was heard, with mutterings: and shortly a batman curiously like the Fat Boy in Pickwick, brought me in my first experience of Maconachie on an enamelled plate. Immediately forgetting what I had been trying to realise – namely that I was actually in a dugout at Festubert, that place of carnage – I 'fell to with an appetite'. The slight ripple of interest that my short-winded entry had caused swiftly died away, and a conversation which I found technical in the highest degree coruscated about me. Archibalds, Pushful Percies, The Mad Major, Baby Elephants, and many more minor characters of war flurried in masks and hoods before my mental vision – what could Pipsqueak mean anyway? and who was Minnie? These speculations were postponed by the Company Commander, who requested a pleasant, sleepy officer to take me 'round the works, sentries and all that', when I had finished my dinner. 'You can turn in when you get back my son,' he added to me. 'There's the bed; you'll probably have rats running across your dial about 2 ack emma but they're quite friendly really.' The bed indicated by him was a kind of burrow in the dugout wall, of sufficiently grisly appearance and a ratty odour. Two or three blankets and numerous sandbags were strewn over the floor, and I was glad to see a magazine or two with them. I finished my meal with some Californian Peaches (the first of a numerous race that later on fell victims to my rapacity in the trenches), and the inevitable trench savoury – singed sardines on toast. Drinks were to be had but I foolishly preferred 'lemonade', an acrid affair made of that powerful ration lime-juice, trench sugar (duly blended with tea), and chlorine-drugged water. Altogether, I began to feel the giant refreshed, and meekly informed my instructor L — that I was ready for the exhibition. Grousing a little at this unnatural disturbance, he proceeded to put on his cap and his revolver ('for those bloody rats' he explained) and we got out.

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Excerpted from Fall in, Ghosts by Edmund Blunden, Robyn Marsack. Copyright © 1968 Edmund Blunden. Excerpted by permission of Carcanet Press Ltd.
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