To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs, known as "No Man's Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras, and between this point and the trenches is the little village of Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted cottages.
Sights like the view from the top of Mont St. Eloi bring home to one the fact that modern methods of warfare are accompanied by few scenic effects or dramatic spectacles. War, like its results, is invariably ugly. Engineers and chemists have made it so by their ghastly appliances and materials, which have put the open fighting of former days on horseback out of the question. Cavalry charges, as portrayed by Lady Butler, are indeed a thing of the past. A few machine guns, suitably concealed, could hold up squadrons of advancing cavalry. The only human element left is the infantry charge, with fixed bayonets. To be killed by the explosion of a shell or asphyxiated by gas, miles behind the line, cannot be described as a heroic death—it is not even fair on the individual who so meets his end. He is not in a position to combat his invisible enemy; sometimes he has not even a sporting chance of escape from an attack which he is powerless to combat or avert. Is it, then, to be wondered at that men living under such conditions, namely, in places which are periodically or continuously strafed, become fatalists? They cease to worry, take everything that comes as a matter of course, never knowing when their turn may come.
Not infrequently we have taken convoys by night to within a matter of a few hundred yards of the line. The absence of lamps and travelling along bad and often narrow roads make slow speed imperative and the utmost care in driving essential. The only light available is provided by the moon and the many star-shells over the trenches, which seem to light up the whole horizon, and remind one of so many shooting stars, or a pyrotechnic display at the Crystal Palace seen from a distance.
Convoying along roads which are in view and under observation of the enemy, even by night, is as exciting as it is a fascinating game, for even if the convoy is, by the absence of headlights, to all intents and purposes made invisible, the enemy is able to assume from their geographical positions what roads are of strategical importance and being made use of for transport purposes to the trenches. He may at any time train a gun on those particular roads, on the off-chance of bagging a convoy, or at any rate of making the road in question so dangerous as to necessitate it being put out of bounds for transport, thus making the approaches to the line more difficult and fewer in number.
Was it not Field-Marshal Sir John French who, some years ago, while speaking of "Night Operations," remarked that "the darker the night, the more inclement the weather, the better the exercise"? "Strong words of comfort these," says The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge.
Chapter XIII
FROM ARRAS TO ALBERT
In the preceding chapters I have endeavoured to narrate a selection from many and various episodes, disconnected, perhaps, due to the omission of details of long periods of enforced inactivity or hum-drum daily routine, during times spent miles behind the line, rationing the cavalry in such places as the neighbourhood between Abbeville and Le Tréport on the seacoast. In this area our second Christmas was spent, and the cavalry were billeted in winter quarters far from the scenes of action, waiting, always waiting, for their chance. Then we moved up again and settled down to our usual duties, seizing the opportunity of putting our house in order, and for the time being carrying out the work with the use of one echelon of motor-lorries only. The other echelon was refitted, thoroughly overhauled in the workshops, and all the lorries were given a coat of fresh paint, so that by the beginning of April they looked brand spanking new, in keeping with their springtime surroundings. During the spring and early summer nothing of importance occurred. The cavalry were continually being shifted from one billeting area to another, but always within the same neighbourhood, not so much for strategical reasons as for the purpose of making room for new Divisions of infantry from home and on their way up to the line. Cavalry, it will be readily understood, has, under existing circumstances, had to take quite a back seat on the Western front. As usual, the R.H.A. batteries attached to the Division were almost continually in action, and the cavalry regiments supplied a constant stream of "digging parties," not only for reserve trench digging, but chiefly for assisting in mining operations from the front line trenches, such operations not being carried out without casualties.
The job of rationing the personnel so engaged and of moving them from their billets to the trenches and back, or from one part of the line to another, as occasion required, devolved, of course, on the motor lorries and entailed a fair amount of work, including a good number of all-night jobs on dangerous roads. During this time the Column was parked near Arras, on the main roads leading thither. Dusty is not the word for one of these on an August day, but it is straight, broad, and of good surface, wide enough in many parts for three lines of traffic.
So time went on, and during July and August 1916 we surveyed "the big push" from a little village not far from Arras, marking in daily on the large-scale map which hung on the wall, with red pencil, the villages captured from day to day, and the advance of the British and French line on the Somme. The nearer one is to the front, the less one knows of the news. The men in the front line trenches know nothing, except what has happened in their immediate vicinity, and even then they are not able to form an opinion of its relative importance, in comparison with what has happened elsewhere, of which they know nothing. Further back there are two sources of information: one is "rumours," on which some people thrive. There are fresh rumours every day, and they invariably contradict one another. The other never-failing source of news is the Paris Continental edition of the Daily Mail, which reaches the uttermost parts of the front by teatime daily and is well worth the 15 centimes usually exacted for it, and universally looked forward to daily.