IV The Push That Failed
I
“I wonder if they really mean business this time,” surmised that youthful Company Commander, Temporary Captain Bobby Little, to Major Wagstaffe.
“It sounds like it,” said Wagstaffe, as another salvo of “whizz-bangs” broke like inflammatory surf upon the front-line trenches. “Intermittent strafes we are used to, but this all-day performance seems to indicate that the Boche is really getting down to it for once. The whole proceeding reminds me of nothing so much as our own ’artillery preparation’ before the big push at Loos.”
“Then you think the Boches are going to make a push of their own?”
“I do; and I hope it will be a good fat one. When it comes, I fancy we shall be able to put up something rather pretty in the way of a defence. The Salient is stiff with guns—I don’t think the Boche quite realises how stiff! And we owe the swine something!” he added through his teeth.
There was a pause in the conversation. You cannot hold the Salient for three months without paying for the distinction; and the regiment had paid its full share. Not so much in numbers, perhaps, as in quality. Stray bullets, whistling up and down the trenches, coming even obliquely from the rear, had exacted most grievous toll. Shells and trench-mortar bombs, taking us in flank, had extinguished many valuable lives. At this time nothing but the best seemed to satisfy the Fates. One day it would be a trusted colour-sergeant, on another a couple of particularly promising young corporals. Only last week the Adjutant—athlete, scholar, born soldier, and very lovable schoolboy, all most perfectly blended—had fallen mortally wounded, on his morning round of the fire-trenches, by a bullet which came from nowhere. He was the subject of Wagstaffe’s reference.
“Is it not possible,” suggested Mr. Waddell, who habitually considered all questions from every possible point of view, “that this bombardment has been specially initiated by the German authorities, in order to impress upon their own troops a warning that there must be no Christmas truce this year?”
“If that is the Kaiser’s Christmas greeting to his loving followers,” observed Wagstaffe drily, “I think he might safely have left it to us to deliver it!”
“They say,” interposed Bobby Little, “that the Kaiser is here himself.”
“How do you know?”
“It was rumoured in ‘Comic Cuts.’” (“Comic Cuts” is the stately Summary of War Intelligence issued daily from Olympus.)
“If that is true,” said Wagstaffe, “they probably will attack. All this fuss and bobbery suggest something of the kind. They remind me of the commotion which used to precede Arthur Roberts’s entrance in the old days of Gaiety burlesque. Before your time, I fancy, Bobby?”
“Yes,” said Bobby modestly. “I first found touch with the Gaiety over ‘Our Miss Gibbs.’ And I was quite a kid even then,” he added, with characteristic honesty. “But what about Arthur Roberts?”
“Some forty or fifty years ago,” explained Wagstaffe, “when I was in the habit of frequenting places of amusement, Arthur Roberts was leading man at the establishment to which I have referred. He usually came on about half-past eight, just as the show was beginning to lose its first wind. His entrance was a most tremendous affair. First of all the entire chorus blew in from the wings—about sixty of them in ten seconds—saying “Hurrah, hurrah, girls!” or something rather subtle of that kind; after which minor characters rushed on from opposite sides and told one another that Arthur Roberts was coming. Then the band played, and everybody began to tell the audience about it in song. When everything was in full blast, the great man would appear—stepping out of a bathing-machine, or falling out of a hansom-cab, or sliding down a chute on a toboggan. He was assisted to his feet by the chorus, and then proceeded to ginger the show up. Well, that’s how this present entertainment impresses me. All this noise and obstreperousness are leading up to one thing—Kaiser Bill’s entrance. Preliminary bombardment—that’s the chorus getting to work! Minor characters—the trench-mortars—spread the glad news! Band and chorus—that’s the grand attack working up to boiling-point! Finally, preceded by clouds of gas, the Arch-Comedian in person, supported by spectacled coryphées in brass hats! How’s that for a Christmas pantomime?”
“Rotten!” said Bobby, as a shell sang over the parapet and burst in the wood behind.
II
Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe’s extravagant analogy held good. As Christmas drew nearer, the band played louder and faster; the chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became finally apparent that something (or somebody) of portentous importance was directing the storm.
Between six and seven next morning, the Battalion, which had stood to arms all night, lifted up its heavy head and sniffed the misty dawn-wind—an east wind—dubiously. Next moment gongs were clanging up and down the trench, and men were tearing open the satchels which contained their anti-gas helmets.
Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on the firing-step to take stock of the position. He crouched low, for a terrific bombardment was in progress, and shells were almost grazing the parapet.
Presently he was joined by a slim young officer similarly disguised. It was the Commander of “A” Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close to Bobby’s left ear, and shouted through the cloth—
“We shan’t feel this gas much. They’re letting it off higher up the line. Look!”
Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air inside his helmet,—being preserved from a gas attack is only one degree less unpleasant than being gassed,—turned his goggles northward.
In the dim light of the breaking day he could discern a greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from the Boche trenches on his left.
“Will they attack?” he bellowed.
Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously unbuttoned his collar and rolled up the front of his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling the atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his helmet altogether. Bobby followed his example. The air was not by any means so pure as might have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable to that inside a gas-helmet.
“Nothing to signify,” pronounced Wagstaffe. “We’re only getting the edge of it. Sergeant, pass down that men may roll up their helmets, but must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, things are getting interesting. Will they attack, or will they not?”
“What do you think?” asked Bobby.
“They are certainly going to attack farther north. The Boche does not waste gas as a rule—not this sort of gas! And I think he’ll attack here too. The only reason why he has not switched on our anaesthetic is that the wind isn’t quite right for this bit of the line. I think it is going to be a general push. Bobby, have a look through this sniper’s loophole. Can you see any bayonets twinkling in the Boche trenches?”
Bobby applied an eye to the loophole.
“Yes,” he said, “I can see them. Those trenches must be packed with men.”
“Absolutely stiff with them,” agreed Wagstaffe, getting out his revolver. “We shall be in for it presently. Are your fellows all ready, Bobby?”
The youthful Captain ran his eye along the trench, where his Company, with magazines loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting the onset. There had been an onset similar to this, with the same green, nauseous accompaniment, in precisely the same spot eight months before, which had broken the line and penetrated for four miles. There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope of cooks, brakesmen, and officers’ servants, and disaster had been most gloriously retrieved. What was going to happen this time? One thing was certain: the day of stink-pots was over.
“When do you think they’ll attack?” shouted Bobby to Wagstaffe, battling against the noise of bursting shells.
“Quite soon—in a minute or two. Their guns will stop directly—to lift their sights and set up a barrage behind us. Then, perhaps the Boche will step over his parapet. Perhaps not!”
The last sentence rang out with uncanny distinctness, for the German guns with one accord had ceased firing. For a full two minutes there was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the opposite trenches twinkled with tenfold intent.
Then, from every point in the great Salient of Ypres, the British guns replied.
Possibly the Imperial General Staff at Berlin had been misinformed as to the exact strength of the British Artillery. Possibly they had been informed by their Intelligence Department that Trades Unionism, had ensured that a thoroughly inadequate supply of shells was to hand in the Salient. Or possibly they had merely decided, after the playful habit of General Staffs, to let the infantry in the trenches take their chance of any retaliation that might be forthcoming.
Whatever these great men were expecting, it is highly improbable that they expected that which arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke out, and they all spoke together. In the space of four minutes they deposited thirty thousand high-explosive shells in the Boche front-line trenches—yea, distributed the same accurately and evenly along all that crowded arc. Then they paused, as suddenly as they began, while British riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work.
But few received the order to fire. Here and there a wave of men broke over the German parapet and rolled towards the British lines—only to be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. Never once was the goal reached. The great Christmas attack was over. After months of weary waiting and foolish recrimination, that exasperating race of bad starters but great stayers, the British people, had delivered “the goods,” and made it possible for their soldiers to speak with the enemy in the gate upon equal—nay, superior, terms.
“Is that all?” asked Bobby Little, peering out over the parapet, a little awe-struck, at the devastation over the way.
“That is all,” said Wagstaffe, “or I’m a Boche! There will be much noise and some irregular scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been placed upon the grand attack. The great Christmas Victory is off!”
Then he added, thoughtfully, referring apparently to the star performer:—
“We have been and spoiled his entrance for him, haven’t we?”