They were all sun-browned, rough-chinned men here. Some had been in the trenches for a week or more, and looked fine-drawn and battered. They were uninterested but confident. Not the sort of gallant gaiety and glitter we are accustomed to associate with the traditional French soldier. That, if it survived the parade times, has given place to a serious intentness upon the one idea, a kind of setting of the teeth to face the issue and force the victory. For the French soldier has more imagination than ours. He has to make up his mind not to picture to himself results and effects which our men simply disregard, as not part of their particular professional concern.
The stories they told had necessarily great resemblance. Of hours of crouching under well-directed shell-fire. Of men killed or decapitated beside them, of hairbreadth escapes from shrapnel, of confused night attacks, of the joy of using "Rosalie" upon the hated grey bodies, when at last they got the chance. And, above all, of the continuous, dreadful noise of the guns and of the shells passing. Several were partially deafened or stupefied by the concussion. A few told of comrades who, not from failure of nerve, but from the mere physical, shattering effect of the perpetual roar and scream upon more nervous systems, had had to be sent back for a time from the line. And "spy" stories, as numerous as ingenious.
After an hour or so the "brother" had to go up to take his turn in the trenches with others. Our officer had gone off in the interval at a summons; and the sergeant left in charge—we were now firm friends—agreed to let me go up a specified distance for a certain time with the section moving out.
We turned to the right round the end of the spur, about thirty of us, ascending diagonally up the side, with a parallel valley receding below us. I had been given directions as to how we were to take advantage of the natural cover, and in places where we should have been more exposed to observation from heights or airmen this cover had been very ingeniously supplemented.
The firing from the greater plateau towards Craonne grew more distinct, but even so it seemed to be none too vigorously prosecuted. The cautious approach along the wet green slope towards a real, if distant, enemy, revived the feelings of keen excitement of our man-hunting game in the Lake Fells. But in the valley bottom, and occasionally on our slope, there were harsh reminders of reality in the pits of shells, broken trees, the litter in abandoned trenches, and here and there the unburied German dead. A number of peasants were engaged in removing these last traces, in the more sheltered depressions. But, as the corporal explained with a shrug, "What would you? If they see where we are, they fire. We cannot risk the good living for those!"
All too soon, as it seemed, we reached the advanced point where on an upward slope, the work of pushing forward diagonal trenches was going on. On our left the hill hid the view; but across the valley, on the right, the same active, methodical work was just visible in the slight stir and occasional glint of mattock or red trouser. With a gesture my attention was drawn to a carefully concealed battery. I doubt if I should have seen it for myself. "They haven't marked that down yet; that's for a surprise when they begin again!"
We crossed a system of narrow man-deep galleries, well-covered, and which had evidently been heavily shelled. I was hurried forward through this, now with even more caution. "They've got the range of this; but we're out there now":—and the "brother" indicated a point a third of a mile ahead, where, it seemed, a sap was being carried forward, on a zigzag towards the crest. Just as we were advancing, the unmistakable moan of an aeroplane sent us to cover, under the old entrenchment. I failed to see it; but a sudden outburst of firing on our left, that died away again, gave the line of its passage. "You may expect something here, after that——has been over," was the remark, made to me, I think, with half malicious intention.
In a small pit or field-quarry on the slope, of innocent appearance, but in reality converted into a very adequate straw-lined shelter or base for the men engaged in digging beyond, I was left; while the section moved forward to take the places of others. These, when they came down, would see me back again. I saw the "brother" leave me with regret. My companions were four men and a corporal, rather glum and tired, but not unfriendly. Two had been slightly wounded, but had refused to go down.
We had barely got on to terms, with grateful cigarettes, when a single growl echoed across the slope in front; and the unmistakable crescendo whine of a shell passed high and to one side above us. It was followed by another, which shrilled its menace more directly overhead; and the flat, quaking explosion, hitting the ear like a blow, could be heard further down over the slope. The men paid scarcely any attention. "It will not go on; we shall not reply," said one. "Reassure yourself: it is at our old trenches," added one of the wounded men, with half a grin. The sensation of being shelled over is denied to the civilian; and in my own case the opportunity was probably unique. I risked the reputation for unconcern of the race, and crept out and up under the higher lip of the depression; from here, well sheltered, I could look backward and down the slope.
Four more shells passed in quick succession. The roar of the discharges rolled in a continuous echo back and across the little valley; through this the singing scream of the shells stabbed venomously. One fell beyond the old trenches, and exploded in the ground—I saw the huge shattered cavity as I returned. Two burst accurately, man high, over the earthworks, faced with sods, of the abandoned gallery; the sight and sound were indescribably shocking to the unaccustomed eye and ear. The last did not explode, but, from the spurt of earth, buried itself deeply twenty yards nearer me up the slope.