Read Ebook: Combed Out by Voigt F A Frederick Augustus

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Ebook has 335 lines and 22505 words, and 7 pages

I returned to camp full of suppressed excitement.

Something was wrong. The shelling of the back-areas continued; air-raids became more and more frequent. These were ominous signs.

Then the newspapers arrived. The Somme front had collapsed. The Fifth Army was in full retreat. The Germans had taken Bapaume and Peronne and were threatening Amiens.

Had I been living in Germany during the war I would have felt a powerful tendency to defend the cause of the Allies, to excuse their misdeeds, to overrate their ability, while being highly critical and censorious of every German shortcoming.

A nation at war is a mob whose very blatancy, injustice and cruelty drive one to hatred and opposition. The enemy mob seems less detestable because it is out of sight and one thinks almost involuntarily: "It cannot be as bad as our own."

I could not bear to hear a victory joyfully announced. The jubilation and the self-glorification of the crowd filled me with loathing, and I could only think of the intensified slaughter and misery that are the price of every victory. They who pay the price, they alone have the right to rejoice, but they do not rejoice. The German mob revealed its depravity when it hung out flags in the streets to celebrate the first German victories. And, when the first battle of Cambrai was won, London jeered at the bereaved and mocked the dead by ringing the joy-bells.

Every genuine patriot is called a traitor in his own country. But patriotism, however genuine, is a thing that must be surmounted. There is only one good that war can bring to a nation--defeat. A patriot, loving his own country, would therefore wish his country defeat in war. But he who has surmounted his patriotism and has attained complete impartiality would not selfishly claim the only benefit of war entirely for his own country, but would desire all to share it alike, and would therefore wish defeat for every warring nation.

If a horde of British and a horde of German soldiers engage in mutual butchery, and if the maimed, broken remnants of the British horde have just enough order left to drive back the remnants of the German horde, leaving innumerable dead and wounded and for ever darkening the lives of countless friends and wives--in other words, if the British army wins what our infamous Press would call a "glorious victory"--then all that is evil in the life of the nation is encouraged and justified. It is then that the diplomatists who lied and schemed to bring on the monstrous event, that all the politicians who exploit and foster the nation's madness and misery to enhance their own reputations, that those who batten on the slaughter, and that those who glorify the carnage at a safe distance and fight the enemy with their lying tongues, are justified. They all are justified. But if, instead of victory, there is defeat, then they tremble lest they should be disgraced and lose their places, lest they should be victims of a disillusioned people's anger, lest they should forfeit their plunder, lest they should be called to account for the lies with which they fooled the masses. Defeat is the defeat of evil, victory is the victory of evil.

A second batch of papers arrived. The German advance was continuing. The British reverse was becoming catastrophic. At first I felt a kind of grimness, and then I was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of the war might be near. We might not have a good peace, but peace of any kind was preferable to war. The mendacious Press talked much about a "dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as a prolonged war.

But the immediate reality became too overwhelming. Grey multitudes were sweeping khaki multitudes before them. High-explosives, shrapnel, grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the living flesh and muscle and bone. Towns and villages were being turned into heaps of brick and wreckage. Hordes of old men, women, and children were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.

We went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now had something to talk about. Would the Germans reach the coast? If they did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. A general retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. We stood in groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.

One day we were returning from work and passing through the village. A crowd of civilians was standing round the window of the Mairie, where a written notice was exposed. An old woman dressed in black was moaning, "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu." The '19, '20, and '21 classes had been called up.

Then the German advance came to an end. A French army had arrived and saved the situation. The shelling of the back areas had ceased. The danger was over for a time.

Had the Germans assembled all their strength for one supreme attempt at breaking through the Western Front? Or was it only the beginning of a whole series of operations?

One morning, as we woke up, we heard the roar and rumble of a bombardment. We did not take much notice of it, for we had heard the sound so often.

We paraded, and marched off to work. The continuous roar gradually gave place to irregular, though frequent, outbursts of firing along the entire front.

The next day the sound seemed to have come nearer. Rumours began to circulate--it was said that Armenti?res had fallen, that the Portuguese had been annihilated at Merville, that the British had counter-attacked and taken Lille.

Rations, newspapers and letters were delayed. Large bodies of troops passed through the village. We got no definite or official news, and nobody had any clear notion of what was happening.

But the sound of firing grew louder and louder and our anxiety deepened. There could no longer be any doubt about it--the Germans were advancing on our front.

The sickening certainty transcended all other considerations. A few miles from us thousands were being slaughtered. I ceased to ponder the problems of failure and success. I forgot the politicians and was conscious of only one despairing wish, that the terrible thing might come to an end. Victory and defeat seemed irrelevant considerations. If only the end would come quickly--nothing else really mattered.

I often wondered what was in the minds of the other men. Many of them looked anxious, but on the whole they were normal in their behaviour. They grumbled and quarrelled much as usual and talked rather more than usual--but so did I, in spite of my intense mental agitation.

The sound of firing grew louder.

We marched to an extensive R.E. park and saw-mill near a railway siding. We had to dismantle the machinery and load everything of any value on to a train. For several hours five of us dragged a huge cylinder and piston along the ground. We toiled and perspired. We made a ramp of heavy wooden beams in front of the train and then we slowly pushed the iron mass into a truck. We went back and, raising a big fly-wheel on its edge and supporting it with a wooden beam under each axle, we rolled it painfully along, swaying from side to side.

Then there came the long-drawn familiar whine, and the black smoke arose behind some trees a hundred yards away and the thunder-clap followed. A jagged piece of steel came whizzing by and lodged in a stack of timber behind us.

We pushed the wheel up the ramp and returned to fetch heavy coils of wire, bundles of picks and shovels, sacks and barrels of nails. Our backs and shoulders ached, our hands and finger-tips were sore.

Another shell came whining over. It burst by a little cottage. Its thunder made our ears sing. The fragments of flying metal made us duck or scatter behind the stacks.

We worked until we almost dropped with sheer fatigue. Iron rods and bars for reinforcing pill-boxes, bags of cement, boxes of tools, parts of machinery, all went on to the train. Then we entered a big shed, where a number of tar-barrels stood in a row. We rolled them out and placed them by the timber stacks. We laid a pick beside each barrel so that it could be broached, the tar set alight, and the entire park destroyed at a moment's notice.

It was dark when we stopped work. We reached camp after an hour's wearisome marching. We waited in a long queue outside the cook-house. The cooks served out the greasy stew as quickly as they could, but we were so tired and ill-tempered that we shouted abuse at them without reason and without being provoked, and banged our plates and tins. The war, the advance, the slaughter were forgotten. We were conscious of nothing but weariness, stiffness, and petty irritation.

The following day we marched to a ration dump. The wooden cases of rations were piled up in gigantic cubes, so that the entire dump looked like a town of windowless, wooden buildings. We formed one long file that circled slowly past the stacks, each man taking one case on to his shoulder or back and carrying it to the train. And so we circled round and round throughout the monotonous day.

In the evening I did not wait in the dinner queue, but went to the St. Martin. It was kept by an old woman and her two daughters. They were tortured by anxiety:

"Les Allemands vont venir ici--de Shermans come heer?" they asked. But I knew no more than they did. I told them, against my own conviction, that the German advance would be held up, but they remained anxious. The uproar of the cannonade was louder than ever. All the windows of the building shook and rattled. The old woman muttered: "'Tis niet goet, 'tis niet goet," and the elder daughter echoed: "Oh, 'tiss no bon, 'tiss no bon."

Two British officers entered. They looked round and saw that private soldiers were sitting at the tables. But the St. Martin was the biggest estaminet in the village and provided the best wines and coffees, so they stood in the doorway, undecided what to do. They asked one of the girls if there was a restaurant for officers in the neighbourhood. She answered: "No--no restaurant for officeerss--you come heer--privates, zey no hurt you--privates, officeerss, all same."

Encouraged by these assurances, one of the newcomers said to the other:

"Come on, let's sit down here and have a coffee--we needn't stop long."

All the smaller tables were occupied, but there was one long table that stretched across the room and only a few men were sitting at the far end of it. The officers sat down at the near end and ordered coffee. They seemed a little embarrassed at first, but they soon began to talk freely to each other:

"I wonder if there's a war on in these parts--I hear the Huns have made a bit of a push."

"Curse the blighters--they'll mess up my leave, it's due in a week's time."

"Jolly good coffee, this! Here, Marie, bring us another two cups--der coop der caffay--that's right, isn't it?"

"Dat's right," said the girl, "you speak goot French--vous avez tout a fait l'accent parisien."

Suddenly her sister came running into the room, sobbing loudly:

"English soldier come round from Commandant--he tell us Shermans come--ve got to go 'vay at once, ve got to leave everysing--ve go 'vay and English troops steal everysing and shellss come and smash everysing and ve looss everysing."

The civilians of the village had received orders to leave immediately. Through the window we could see groups of people standing in the street and talking together. They were greatly agitated.

The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. The elder daughter was packing a few things in a bundle. One of the officers asked: "What about our coffee?" but she took no notice. Her sister had gone out in search of further information.

She soon returned. Yes, they would all have to leave at once, but, if they liked to take the risk, they could come back to-morrow with a wagon, if they could get one, and fetch their belongings.

They were comforted. They knew where they would be able to get a wagon. They would cart their stock and their household property away on the morrow. They would start another estaminet somewhere. They would suffer loss and inconvenience, but they would not be ruined--their valuable stock of wines would save them from that.

The bundle was made up and they prepared to leave. We paid our bill and went out into the street. Numbers of soldiers were straggling past. They looked wretched and exhausted. Their boots and puttees were caked with mud. They had neither rifles nor packs. Three men were lying up against a garden wall. We asked them for news. They could not tell us much, except that the Germans were still advancing.

"We was at Dickebusch when 'e started slingin' stuff over--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf wallop yer--umpteen of our mates got bleed'n' well biffed. We cleared out afore it got too 'ot."

Several famished "battle-stragglers" had entered our camp in order to beg for food. They sat round the cook-house and ate in gloomy silence.

In the adjoining field a number of tents had sprung up. Blue figures were moving in and out amongst them. The French had arrived.

The next morning, about breakfast time, the first shell burst near the camp--a short rapid squeal followed by a sharp report. The second shell burst a few minutes after, throwing up earth and smoke. A steel fragment came sailing over in a wide parabola and struck the foot of a man standing in the breakfast queue. He limped to the first-aid hut, looking very pale. When he got there, he had some difficulty in finding his wound, it was so slight.

We paraded and marched off. Several shells burst in the neighbouring fields. We reached the ration dump and began to load the train. A civilian arrived with the newspapers. Our N.C.O.'s were powerless to stop the general stampede that surged towards the paper-vendor.

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