Behind them, they heard shells bursting; in front, the road lay deserted between shattered houses. They trotted past a level crossing; came on confusion beyond belief.
In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars, motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed, wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are you the Suffolks?”
Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark.
“Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of the Brigade, did you?”
“No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.”
“They’re not due yet.”
Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up.
“What about General Ballardyce, sir?”
“God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away long.”
Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin against a vehicle. “Who’s that?”