Every afternoon, at four o’clock sometimes, sometimes at five o’clock, sometimes later even, we had our evening battle. The morning rounds completed, the colonel returned to Headquarters, where I saw no more of him for an hour or two. That time was my own, when I crawled under the wretched awning of my funk-hole, and settled down to grill through the heat of the day. By three or four o’clock invariably the colonel came to life again, arriving in the open to stretch and collect periscope and glasses. Then he would call out, “Come on, Lake!” and tread again the little path up the hill to the valley head. Sometimes we took the left-hand trenches, where there was an observing station in Sands’s charge; but more often at the B Battery observing station the fight had birth.
Every evening we asked for trouble, put in a round here and a round there until we got it, and with little enough need it seemed; but maybe the army would have lost hope had nothing like this happened. For through much of the day—when even the flies fell exhausted into the tea—the[235] snipers of either army lost heart to snipe, and the gunners lay by their guns wondering how it was they could not die. But as the sun climbed down his ladder, and a flagging breeze puffed off the sea, we rose again to our feet, picked up periscopes and telephones, and goaded ourselves into another evening hate.
At this time—late spring or early summer—the Turkish army had lately spent a mighty effort to drive us into the sea. Purging the beach of our presence, they called it in their newspapers. The old knowledge was reproven—hopeless to attack well-armed, well-entrenched troops. At the end of several fierce hours the attempt was spent, and the enemy reeled to his trenches leaving on a few acres of ground between three and four thousand dead. Everywhere you looked the dead men lay, and hours later you might see an arm move or a leg rise, where some poor fellow cried on Death not to delay. In time the breath of decay searched you out the length of Shrapnel Valley, and when the wind veered in the trenches it caught you by the throat. I marvelled how the men there got down their dinners.
One evening, on the heels of the big attack, we had a pretty little battle. The colonel observed from B Battery station, and I carried orders to the telephonist a few yards away.
The major had not turned up, and Mr. Hay was in charge. B Battery was dusting up “C” or “Collins Street” or one of the usual targets, and the other batteries banged away elsewhere with more than daily hate. A great many snipers[236] were at work too on either side. We had woken up this afternoon.
The great heat of the day had passed, indeed there were one or two signs of evening. The sun was three parts of the way down the sky, and shadows started to grow at the bottom of every bush. The high noon haze was no more, and you could see with great clearness over all the desolate country. Our shells burst in sudden white clouds on the great hill in the distance; and here and here, did you know where to look, moved the puff of the enemy’s return fire. And nearer at hand, you could follow the Turkish trenches by the vicious, short-lived dust spurts of our bullets.
Where the colonel took his stand, they were tunnelling out a machine-gun position; and every few moments men came out of the earth with freshly filled sandbags on their shoulders. They crowded the narrow passage, blocking me every time I hurried to Mr. Hay or the telephonist.
The colonel stood on a platform, head just under the parapet, periscope just above. His size caused him to crouch, and his legs were wide apart. The brisker grew the battle, the more engrossed became he; so that now he never moved his head, but stayed bent forward staring into the glass. His exclamations made to himself were to be heard. “That’s a good one! Very good! Right on the target! That’s pretty shooting! Green’s into ’em now! Oh, damn! now they’re off! Hay has got off! Are you there, Lake?”
I stood just below watching for the least sign, for when he grew interested, often a movement[237] of the hand was all his signal, and at best he would jerk out an abrupt word or two. Now I answered, “Yes, sir,” and stood ready. “Tell Mr. Hay to come over more. Two degrees more right. That’s better, that’s better! Still he can come over more. Two degrees more right, tell him!”
Away went I. Mr. Hay was at the periscope and nodded to show he had heard. As I moved off again, he called out: “Tell the colonel they seem to be waving flags over there. They seem to want to attract attention. They were doing it before, and now they have started again.” I told the colonel what he said, but got no answer for my pains. I would have looked myself had there been time.
“That’s better, that’s better!” the colonel started to say. “Now he is short! Damn it, he’s short! Lake, tell him to add fifty. Say he wants fifty or a hundred.” I took the message and came back again, finding time to sit down. The action went on, losing little or nothing of its briskness. Then came word down the line, passed in a mysterious unofficial way, that something was happening on the other side; the enemy was waving flags and looking over the parapets, as if to attract attention. But it seemed no more was to come of it, as the fire went on and the moment’s excitement was spent. Yet five minutes later it had grown again, and methought something must happen now. I itched to see how matters went, but I must not leave the spot. The firing lost heart, becoming a number of sharp[238] explosions in place of an unbroken roll. Again the word came along. The colonel took interest finally and stopped a passing officer to inquire, and next looked again at the opposite trenches. Finally he gave word for the batteries to cease fire, and stepped down on to the floor of the trench. Our part in the battle was over. I lost no time picking up a periscope and seeing all there was to see. It was little enough worth the bother. The enemy must have given up their idea, for not one flag flew, gaze as I would. I soon tired and sat down on a ledge belonging to some machine gunners who lived round here. It was their habit to sleep through the day and come out at evening. Each man had a recess of his own, with a blanket hung before it to cheat the sun. Their legs only were left in sight. It came about that I knew them better by their feet than their faces.
When I sat down, the colonel disappeared. Maybe he went to pass the time of day with an infantry colonel whose dug-out was a few steps down the path. Commonly he did this, leaving me in the trench to call him if need be. Just now were several sets of legs showing beyond the blankets, and a half-hearted argument went forward.
“I joined fer the six bob of course: what else’d a bloke do it fer?”
“I joined ’cos I ’ad a row with the old woman. I went out in a ’urry and joined right away, and I blasted well wish I ’adn’t.”
“What did you join fer, Darkie? Was it the six bob, or a row with yer tart, or was the police[239] after yer?” Darkie made no answer. “Wot was it, Darkie?”
“I joined cos I thought a bloke ought ter join.”
It was like the bursting of an 8·25 shell. Nobody said anything. Nobody moved at all. I looked around for a museum to put the sentiment in.
We were wide awake this afternoon, and a brisk musketry fire continued. I sat where I was, hearing the noise and yet not hearing it. The sun had stepped another rung down his ladder, a few shadows spread about, and there was even a suggestion of evening cool. I don’t know what I thought of, nothing probably, for the place had power to destroy one mentally and morally. Then without warning there woke again the former interest. “They’re waving the flags,” came down from the right. “There’s something doing! There’s something up!”
I got up with a yawn and went to the parapet, and there poked up the periscope, and interest came with a vengeance. Straight before me was a big white flag charged with a red crescent, moving slowly forwards and backwards over the enemy parapet, and while I watched a second one rose up on our right and at odd intervals appeared other streamers which might have been small flags and might have been rags. Round me all who by hook or by crook could get hold of a periscope were on the platforms finding out what was happening, and this must have taken place over a great deal of the line, as presently the musketry became completely broken up and on the point of cessation.
[240]
I had taken stand among the B Battery men, beside their periscope, where the parapet was quite low, and it wanted no effort to look over the top. I fell to debating whether to take the risk and see first hand how matters went, and while yet I stayed uncertain something happened to decide me on the moment. There was a movement in the enemy’s trench beside the largest flag, and a man climbed over the parapet and dropped on to the open ground. He stood still a moment in uneasy fashion, next took into his hands the big white flag with the red crescent, held it overhead, and came forward. I felt like crying out my admiration. Our snipers shot yet in scores, in hundreds may be; and any moment a stray shot or the aimed shot of a fool might tumble him over where he stood. And no one knew the danger better than himself, for he bowed his head and upper body as does a man advancing in the teeth of a great wind, and came forward with deliberate steps, moving his wide flag in wider semicircles. To the devil with caution, said I, and stood right up and looked across the open. “By Jove!” I must exclaim out loud. “By Jove!” Beside me was Mr. Hay, and he looked round to know had I gone mad.
News had travelled everywhere that something special was on hand, for cries went up and down: “Cease fire there! Cease fire!” And the firing did die away, though unwillingly, lessening and returning again in gusts, like an April wind or a woman’s last word in an argument. Even when you might say the musketry had stopped, there[241] was still a splutter and a cracking here and here, for there are ever fools who cannot help themselves.
But all this while the man of peace continued on his way, at the same stride and in the same bent attitude. May be ere starting on the journey he had delivered his soul into Allah’s safekeeping, for no shot touched him, and no quick fear turned him from the path. There was something that moved me deep down as I looked on his unhurried pace and the slow waving of his flag. It plucked my heart strings to see him alone there, his life not worth a smoked-out cigarette. I stood right up, all my upper body above the parapet, so that the countryside was bared before me, and a draught of evening wind born of wide spaces came a-knocking at my nostrils. All my heart cried out to him. “My salute, friend, my salute! Do you hear me over there? It is Gunner Lake who calls. A brave man’s heart is crying out to a brave man! My salute, friend! In all honour I offer my salute!”
When the man of peace had advanced halfway, the musketry fire of both sides was nearly silent, and there was a stir of uncertainty in our ranks. You heard some crying, “Cease fire,” and others calling out against it, shouting there was no order, and what the devil was everyone about. But the firing did not start again, or only in short-lived bursts, and the men hung by the loopholes, waiting what might befall. There was a stir on our side now, near Clayton’s trench it seemed from here, and soon an officer came into[242] the open, with a handkerchief tied on to a stick or a rifle, I did not notice which. At the same time a couple of Turks hopped from their trenches, and another of our men went forward; and it seemed they would hold a parley then and there. While I looked to see, I found the colonel at my shoulder.
“Get the interpreter, Lake,” he said quickly. “Get Bargi and bring him here. He may be wanted.” Over I went to the telephonist and sent down word, then back again I came and told the colonel, and next up I jumped once more to look over the country.
The little company had come together and were in parley. The distance was a matter of hundreds of yards, so there was little enough to see and nothing to be heard. I hoped when Bargi came the colonel would go over there, and I grew eager for his coming. I had become impatient, and cursed him for his fatness, when a second big flag was put up to our right hand, and two men jumped into the open and came towards our trenches, one empty-handed and one bearing with him the standard. The colonel looked round sharply, and made as if to go over there, then of a sudden he turned to me.
“Where’s Bargi, Lake? Where’s Bargi?”
“He’s on the way, sir.”
“Meet him and hurry him up. Say I want him at once!”
I pushed towards the trench mouth as speedily as could be managed, not the least eager for the run down the hill and back again. But at the[243] turn I met Bargi blowing with his exertions, and a look half-pleased, half-scared, on his sweating face. He was a little Italian Jew who spoke and wrote a dozen languages. By trade he had been art photographer, traveller for a firm of jewellers, and one or two other things as best I could make out. War was declared, times grew hard, and he made up his mind to go a-soldiering. But he mistook his trade. He was the most cowardly man in the brigade. “My disposition is very nervous,” he said to me once. “I am too sensitive.” And he shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “Sensitive,” thought I. “Good friend, we call it by another name.”
He got on badly with the other men, and I was sorry for him, and on the whole liked him well enough. Now I pulled him up, and he panted and asked what was wanted. “The colonel wants you in a hurry. He is waiting a few yards up the trench.” No more was said. Bargi went on without more speech, and I turned to follow. But Lewis pulled at my sleeve and asked what was happening. He had been Bargi’s guide up here. “There’s a bit of an armistice on,” I called out as I turned. “Have a look for yourself. I have to get after the colonel.............