The Test of Scarlet: A Romance of Reality

CONTENTS


THE raid is over. The frenzied appeal of the Hun flares has died down. Flares are the deaf and dumb language of the Front. Sometimes they say, “We are advancing”; sometimes, “We are beaten back.” Most often they say, “We are in danger; call upon the artillery for help.” Tonight they seemed to be crying out for mercy—speaking not to friends, but to us. We were silent as God, and now they too are silent.
In the welter of darkness one can still make out the exact location of the enemy’s front-line by the glow of his burning dug-outs. Our chaps set them on fire, standing in the doorways like avenging angels, and hurling down incendiary bombs as he tried to rush up the stairs. A horrid way to die, imprisoned underground in a raging furnace! Yet at this distance the destruction looks comfortable as the reflection of many camp-fires about which companions sit and warm their hands. The only companions in those trenches now are Corruption and his old friend Death.
I can see it all—the twisted terror of the bodies, the mangled redness of what once were men. I see these things too clearly—before they happen, while they are happening and when I ‘m not there. It is only when I am there that I do not see them, and they fail to impress me. It was so tonight as I crouched in my observation post, my telephonist beside me, waiting for the show to commence. As the second-hand ticked round to zero hour, I had an overpowering desire to delay the on-coming destruction. I peopled the enemy line with imaginary characters and built up stories about them. I pictured the homes they had left, the affections, the sweethearts, the little children. God knows why I should pity them. And then our chaps—they are known personalities; I can paint with exact precision the contrast between what they are and what they were. I see them always with laughter in their eyes, however desperate the job in hand. Their faces lean and eager as bayonets, they assemble in some main trench, as likely as not facetiously named after some favorite actress. On our present front we have the Doris Keane, the Teddie Gerrard and the Gaby. A sharply whispered word of command! They move forward, shuffling along the duckboard, come to the jumping-off point and commence to follow the lanes in the wire which lead out from safety across No Man’s Land. They crouch like panthers, flinging themselves flat every time a rocket ascends. Within shouting distance of the enemy, they drop into shell-holes and lie silent. All this I see in my mind as I gaze impotently through the blackness. My turn comes later when the raid is in full swing; it consists in directing the artillery fire and reporting to the rear what is happening.