Chapter XXVII: On the Part Dennis Played in the Recapture of Biaches

It was growing dark now, and the rolling country through which they passed became rapidly blurred. The white excavations that here and there marked the presence of a trench were like a child's scribbling on a slate, if the occasional glow of a brazier had not told Dennis that those trenches were full of men, all waiting to repulse the great Allied push.

He was happier now that the night was at hand, for it lessened his chances of being recognised; but most of all was he pleased that no one seemed to bother his head about him--no one entered into conversation.

For all that his condition was one of cramped discomfort, apart from its peril. The tightly packed mass of human beings smelt offensively, for the German, even in peace time, is a dirty animal, not fond of washing himself.

The train moved so slowly--it was one of half a dozen similar trains all using a single line--that he seriously contemplated trying to escape when it should become quite dark, only the obvious presence of large bodies of troops in every direction made him abandon the idea.

He was conscious that a feeling of sullen discontent was present in the battalion.

"'Tis a blessing we're not going to Verdun, or to Hindenburg's command," said one of his neighbours in a low voice. "I myself have been spirited three times to Poland and back, until the very sight of a troop train gives me a feeling of sickness."

"And I can go one better than that," grunted another voice. "I have been wounded five times, and they've patched me up and sent me back again, and my wife has died since I have been at the front. I am waiting for my sixth wound, and I hope it will find the heart."

Dennis gathered from such and other scraps of conversation all around him that the little British cavalry dash had been witnessed from the trench they had just left, and that the spirits of the battalion had not been improved by the sight. They obeyed their orders like sheep, but they were sheep that had gone astray, and their confidence in their leaders' powers to lead them back into the path of victory was growing less every day.

Stopping every now and then, and waiting sometimes a quarter of an hour at a stretch, the train took a terrible time to reach the vicinity of Peronne, although the distance was little more than ten miles, and Dennis found it difficult to keep his patience under control; but at last glimmering lights showed in the distance, lights that were reflected in wavy lines on the marshes that surrounded the town, and speculation became rife in the truck.

"I wonder if they will put us in the barracks, or shall we go into billets?" said somebody in the darkness. "Billets, I hope. It would be heaven to sleep in a bed again with soft pillows, and to make the housewife clean one's things, and kick her if she did not do them properly."

Everyone watched the lights with keen interest, but to their disappointment they passed away behind. The train went swaying and clinking on; and when it reached its destination at last, there was nothing to be seen but a wood of tall trees topping a ridge against the fitful moonlight.

Somewhere beyond the ridge was the sound of gunfire again, striking strangely familiar on the ears that had almost lost it at times during the journey.

"Get out!" shouted the sergeants. "Have you pigs gone to sleep? Fall in here beside the line!" And, extricating their legs with some difficulty, they scrambled over the edge of the trucks, dropped down, and sorted themselves somehow into sections and companies after much bullying and some blows struck.

Dennis found himself between the repeatedly wounded man and the private who had been three times to Poland, and presently the battalion was formed up four deep and marched.

As they swung off it began to rain.

For an hour they continued their route, getting uncomfortably damp during the process; and then they were halted and told that they might lie down. Some of the men lit their pipes, and Dennis would have dearly loved a cigarette; but he was afraid that the odour might betray him, so he contented himself with curling up between his two new acquaintances and went to sleep.

He had no plans; everything must depend upon chance and what the daylight showed him; and when the man on his right shook him and he rose to his feet, he saw that they were on the bank of a navigation canal.

Behind them the mist was curling from the water meadows of Picardy, and along the river tall poplars lifted their heads above the fog.

"Do you know what we are going to do, Kamerad?" he said to the much-wounded man.

"Die, I hope," was the response.

Circumstances had not unnaturally made him a pessimist.

The roll was being called, but the fog was so thick that one could hardly see the sergeant and his notebook; and keeping his lips tight, Dennis was overlooked, and nobody noticed it.

It so happened that the real Carl Heft belonged to another company, and was marked absent on duty at Divisional Headquarters.

There was a bread distribution, and Dennis got his share. It was black, but distinctly palatable, and was better than the coffee that was served out later on.

He knew the masquerade could not last for ever, and at kit inspection the moment he had been dreading came.

Luckily for him the sergeant was a good-humoured fellow, although he opened his eyes with a start when he saw that the boyish-looking private in front of him had no belts.

"Where is your equipment?" he said.

"I left it behind me, sergeant," replied Dennis. "We were mustered so quickly that I had no time to go to our dug-out, which was at the other end of the trench close to the big crater."

"Ha! We have cause to remember that crater, is it not so?" said the sergeant gravely. "Eighteen men and two officers it cost us, and that was why I was appointed to this company three days ago. What is your name?"

"Carl Heft, sergeant."

"Carl Heft? Were you not attached to headquarters? What are you doing here?"

Dennis lowered his voice.

"It is like this, sergeant," he said. "I want to be a soldier, not a clerk. I have not fired a shot at the enemy for two months, and when the order came to fall in I could not resist it."

The sergeant raised his eyebrows, and then a smile crept into his face.

"My boy, you are in the way to get into trouble, but never mind; I like your spirit, and I will see what I can do for you. Can you throw bombs?"

"Ja."

"Very well, you shall join the bombers; and presently I will bring you a bag of sweetmeats of the sort the French do not find to their liking."

His nod implied that there was already a secret understanding between them, and as he passed on Dennis saw possibilities looming in the future. A bomber acted more or less independently, and an avenue of escape was opened up to him.

All that July day, however, the battalion remained on the bank of the canal resting; and during the afternoon the mist, which had never entirely cleared away, returned, and a thick grey fog muffled the marshlands.

True to his promise, the sergeant had provided him with a sheaf of grenades with copper rods to be fired from the rifle and a collar of racket bombs, and Dennis sprang smartly to his feet when the word was given to fall in.

"We are going to attack in ten minutes," said the sergeant. "There are two places--the village of Biaches over yonder, and the hill of La Maisonette more to the left. The French carried them on the 9th; they will be ours again to-night. The fog is the very thing for us; nothing could be better. Our battalion will take Biaches, and it will be hot work."

"What are the troops we shall have to face, sergeant?" said Dennis.

"Senegalese, I am told--Black Devils, who stick at nothing--and some Territorials, mostly old men and fathers of families; but we shall see."

"Yes, we shall see!" murmured Dennis, as the command "_Links schliessen!_" was given, and the battalion touched in to its left.

Hoarse voices bellowed out of the thick mist, and the 307th Reserve Battalion, after marching for a short distance along the river, filed across a lock bridge and plunged into the woods.

Smoking was forbidden, and strict silence enjoined. Other battalions had come from Peronne by way of the Faubourg de Paris, and there were several halts to establish communication.

Overhead the fog was tinged with a rosy hue, but round about the men all was grey, and one could see very little farther than the spectral tree-trunks in one's immediate vicinity.

The foxy-faced captain with the gold-rimmed glasses marched behind his company, and in his hand he carried a brutal whip, a veritable cat-o'-nine-tails. When a man stumbled over some hidden tree root he would hiss out "Pig!" or "Clumsy hound!" And Dennis felt his heart leap as he heard himself addressed.

"You with the bombs there--what are you doing with those brown boots?" said the captain.

"They belong to an English prisoner," said Dennis, with perfect truth.

"That is no excuse," said the officer sternly. "You will report yourself after this affair is over for daring to go into action improperly dressed. What is your name?"

"Carl Heft, Herr Captain," said Dennis, over his shoulder.

"Very well, I shall remember it," snarled the bully. And, changing his tone, he shouted "Vorwaerts!" as a shot rang out ahead of them, and they heard the French sentries give the alarm.

Instantly the hoarse roll of drums rose from the advancing battalions, and everyone quickened his pace. The wood thinned out, and, bursting from the trees, the 307th Reserve Battalion flung themselves with the bayonet upon the ruined village of Biaches.

There was a belfry tower still standing, and the chimney of a factory--all the rest was a heap of shattered dwelling's round which the greeny-grey wave surged with a roar.

In front of them figures in blue-grey ran scurrying, and were joined by others, and the rifles began to speak.

"This is all very well," thought Dennis, finding himself between two fires. "I had better lie doggo for a bit while they get on with it." And, stepping inside the ruins of a small shop, he flung himself down on a heap of bricks in the posture of a wounded man.

It would have been madness to do otherwise, for the machine-guns were raining bullets everywhere; and, trembling with excitement, he lay unnoticed for a good half-hour, until a hoarse cheer in German told him that Biaches had passed into the enemy's hands. At almost the same moment the modern chateau, surrounded by its park of fine trees on the hill of La Maisonette, had been retaken by the Germans from Peronne.

But Dennis smiled quietly to himself.

"My chance will come when the counter-attack begins," he thought. "Those brave Frenchmen don't take this sort of thing lying down."

As the firing died away cheer after cheer rent the air, followed by a babel of voices in German as every man worked hard to consolidate the position; and as the dusk drew down Dennis thrust his rifle grenades inside the broken chimney of the little shop, and ventured out into the open air.