Battlewrack

by F. Britten Austin

The sun hung in the mists of morning, swollen, blood-red, a symbol of augury, as the artillery brigade pulled out of the village where it had been billeted for the night. At the tail of its long line of slowly moving vehicles marched a compact column of brown-clad infantry. In front moved a squadron of cavalry. The lieutenant-colonel commanding the brigade trotted smartly past the batteries with his staff. Fresh from an interview with the divisional artillery commander, he tried not to look preoccupied and anxious as he met the searching eyes of his men. From an unknown distance a dull thud, irregularly repeated, vibrated through the dense atmosphere. The colonel raised his head sharply to listen. The men in the column exchanged glances full of meaning.

The dull concussions continued, but the column did not increase its pace. The long line of guns and wagons rolled onward at a steady walk, amid a jangle of chains and harness. The gunners on the limbers smoked and talked. Occasionally there was a burst of laughter. It seemed that that ominous thudding was a summons which concerned them not at all. In the fog which drifted in patches across the road its origin seemed enormously remote.

The junior subaltern of the third and last battery in the column heard the sound with less indifference. Each of those muffled shocks came to him like a knock upon his heart. He listened for them anxiously and shuddered, in spite of himself, as the air vibrated on his ears. He needed none to tell him their meaning, novel though the sound was to him. They were the first long shots of the opening battle. As he listened, blindfold as it were in that fog, his animal tissues shrunk at this menace of an untried experience, while at the same time another part of him, the dominant, grew fretfully anxious lest the battery was too far in rear, lest they should be too late. The conflict of these opposing impulses in him made him nervous and fidgety. He wanted to talk to someone, to discuss the situation, to exchange opinions upon a host of possibilities. He looked longingly at the No. 1 of the leading gun of his section as he walked his horse at the side of the leaders and chatted quietly to the driver. The sergeant appeared so calm, so strong with already acquired experience. He felt almost irresistibly impelled to enter into conversation with him—opening phrases kept coming to his tongue—but a shame at the weakness of his own nerve restrained him. He braced himself with a thought of his rank and responsibilities and remained silent. The subaltern was new to war and new to the battery. He had come straight from the "Shop" with a draft of men to replace the wastage of the last battle. He was very young and, until that morning, very proud of himself.

Unexpectedly, the column halted. Why? The subaltern chafed. It was intolerable to idle there upon the road with that urgent summons momentarily shaking the air. The concussions followed one another much more quickly now and came with a sharper sound. They seemed to run all along a wide arc stretched far to right and left in front of him. Occasionally they came in heavy salvos that swallowed the noise of isolated shots. He could see nothing. The fog lay thick upon the road, a white curtain against which danced black specks as he strained his eyes at it. The column stood still and silent. Only a jingling of chains arose as the horses nosed at each other. Presently, as the passengers in a fog-bound train hear the rumble of the other train for which they wait, a sound came to him out of the mist and explained the halt. It was the hollow rhythmic tramp of infantry. The sound increased and then maintained itself at a uniform pitch. In the distance the artillery salvos followed one another ever more quickly, peal on peal of thunder. Still the hollow beat of boots upon the road continued. The subaltern swore to himself. Were they to wait there while the entire army passed? At last the hollow sound diminished, died down, ceased. A sharply uttered order ran down the column. The line of vehicles moved on again.

For a long time they marched through the fog, drawing ever nearer to the cannonade. There were no more halts. Nevertheless it seemed to the subaltern that their progress was wilfully, culpably slow. As a matter of fact, the column, responding to the magnetism of battle, had involuntarily quickened pace. The physical anxiety of the subaltern communicated itself to, and was misinterpreted by, his brain. He imagined that he was concerned wholly for the fate of the army if deprived of the valuable support of the brigade to which he was attached. He conceived enormous disasters hinging on their non-appearance. Suddenly he noticed, with surprise, that his knees were trembling against the saddle, his hands shaking as they held the reins. This discovery startled him. His anxiety for the army was obliterated by another. Could he be sure of himself? A spasm of alarm shot through him. Would that calm mysterious higher self in him lose control? He had a glimpse of himself in a whirlwind of sensations, a maddened animal dashing to escape. It must not be. He exercised his volition as an athlete exercises a muscle, testing it. Desperately, he willed himself to immobility. The tremor in his limbs did not cease. He agonised lest someone should perceive it. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Nevertheless his brain was clear. He held fast to that. Never mind what his body did, at all costs his brain must be kept clear and cool. Engaged in these introspections he forgot the fog, forgot the lagging brigade, forgot the ever-swelling uproar in front of him.

Suddenly the mist broke, rolled away from a sunlit landscape. They were at the summit of a slight elevation. About them was open country, dotted with trees and farms. In front the road dropped and then mounted. He looked over the heads of the artillery-men before him and saw a long column of infantrymen ascending the further hill. It was for that column that the brigade had waited. The recognition of the fact reawakened perception through a linked memory. He heard again the pealing thunder of the guns, to which for some minutes he had been oblivious. Instantly an intense, anxious curiosity took possession of him. Where were they fighting? In the fog his mind had formed a picture of lines of guns coughing out flame and noise at each other, desperately in conflict, just at the other side of the curtain drawn before his eyes. Now, the veil dropped, he looked at reality and only so much of the picture persisted as to puzzle him. Save for the column marching ahead there was no sign of life in that open countryside. Yet the air was full of sound. No longer was it a series of dull concussions. It was one vast, continuous, ringing roar, broken at intervals by the sound of violent fracture as a puff of wind came to his cheek. Excitedly, he strained his eyes at the distances, seeking some point where he could localise the conflict. There was nothing. Yes! Far ahead of him, beyond the hill which the infantry were climbing, a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. In that haze tiny puffs sprang into being and spread lazily. There, then! Encouraged, his gaze searched the landscape. Far to his left, over a little wood that closed the view, hung another such haze, and, as his eyes ranged over the country, he saw a line of smoke-puffs leap from nowhere above a hill to his right. The line was constantly renewed until the smoke trailed across the blue sky like a cloud. A thrill ran through him. He forgot himself, lost all memory of his doubts. He quivered, but it was with eagerness to rush into the fight. Oh, to mount that hill and see what was happening! The infantry drew up over it, disappeared beyond the summit like a snake drawing in its tail. The artillery crawled onward.

He was calculating the minutes that must elapse before their arrival on the crest when suddenly his hopes were dashed. The brigade was turning off along a by-road to the left. Baulked of his desire, he swore savagely, almost with tears. A man on the limber near him looked up in sharp surprise. He desisted, clenching his teeth. Inwardly he raged. As he too swung round the corner, his back to the direction of the smoke-cloud he had so excitedly watched, it seemed that he was turning out of the battle. The brigade moved for some distance along that road and then halted, drawn close in to the hedge. Behind them swelled the noise of tramping infantry, growing louder. The men who had followed them were going to pass. They came, swinging along at a good pace, steadily rhythmic. They passed, endlessly. The subaltern found himself gazing curiously at the faces of men in the stream. Some were stern and set, some laughed carelessly, some shouted jokes to the artillery-men, many were strangely haggard and drawn. He noticed one man who gazed at nothing with a rapt expression. His lips were moving. He was praying. They were going into battle. The subaltern was again aware of the thunder of the guns.

The brigade waited. The tramp of the infantry had long since ceased. They seemed alone, forgotten, on the road. Suddenly an order was passed down the column. The subaltern repeated it, almost before he was aware that he had heard it. "No. 3 Section—Prepare for action!" Instantly the gun detachments leaped to the ground. The breech and muzzle covers were removed and strapped to the front of the gun shields. The breech, the firing mechanism, the ranging gear, the sights were swiftly examined. The men on the ammunition wagons tested the opening of the lids, looked to the fuse indicator, saw that the fuses were at safety. These things done, they resumed their seats. The subaltern's heart beat fast. Now?

Minute after minute passed. The brigade waited in all readiness to move. Presently the order came. "Walk!—March!—Trot!" They passed quickly along the road. The subaltern looked ahead, saw his battery leader turn through a gate into a broad meadow on the right. The other batteries were turning into the field further up. He lost sight of one of them. He arrived at the gate, wheeled into it. "By the left—Form Battery Column!" The subsections of single guns drew out and up level with the other gun of the section, each with its following wagon. The first line or reserve wagons dropped behind. The battery trotted smartly forward across the field. It was a large meadow, unintersected by hedge or ditch, rising gently to the ridge whereto their original road had climbed. At the summit was a small copse. Far in front the subaltern saw a group of horsemen riding swiftly towards it. He knew it for the colonel and his staff. Between him and them was a mounted figure, halted, and, some distance further away, another figure. It was the battery commander and the sergeant-major marking the position of the battery and the line of fire. The battery went on. The ridge was looming up close in front. "By the left—Form Line!" The guns wheeled into a long line. Their accompanying wagons slackened speed, fell some forty yards in rear. "Walk!—Halt!—Action Front!" The guns stopped. The detachments leaped down. Two men seized the gun-trail, unhooked it from the limber, gave the order "Limber drive on!" The horses trotted quickly round in a half-circle and went to the rear. The trail was carried round, reversing the gun. A moment later the attendant wagon came up, placing itself close on the left, its axle a little in rear of the gun-axle. About each gun in the line there was a second or two of busy movement. The No. 1 threw back the traversing lever, laid the gun approximately in the true direction, noted the level of the wheels. Others lowered the shield, put on the brakes, fixed the sights. Two others opened the ammunition wagon and half withdrew a number of rounds in readiness. The subaltern's horseholder came up. As he surrendered his mount he felt that he was stepping into the arena.