A Fox Under My Cloak Read online

  In places where shell-holes in the pavé had been filled in with brick rubble, the ice was opaque. The steam-tram lines were gashed where splinters had torn them. Soon, now, somewhere on the right, should be the stump of the windmill, and the site of the corn-stack where the Iron Colonel had lain until the Earl of Findhorn came and ordered his body to be carried back. Over the field on the left the Bavarians had advanced as the moon rose up, cheering, shouting, bands playing. Ah, there were the old trenches, how small and forsaken, how insignificant they looked among the shell-holes. No sign of the windmill, but there was the red barn, or the walls of it, on which they had advanced, out of l’Enfer Wood. Suddenly he saw a burial ground, beside the road, with white-and-black painted wooden crosses. Before he could stop to think, he had dismounted, thrown down the machine, and was walking to the graves, many with crosses stencilled with the Iron Cross above the lettering Hier rüht in Gott. They all rested in God, German and Englishman buried side by side. With a pang he saw that some crosses were hung with the glengarry. Some had no names. He dared not be there too long. Many were nameless: Unbekannt after Unbekannt, resting. All of the Engländers were resting; but the Germans were resting in God. Why was that? Both German and Englishman shared the same deep deep sleep, side by side.

  It was cold. He must go on. He must get back to the British lines. He began to feel desperately alone. The flat-tyred, high-handled machine rattled on over the sett-stones, following the rusty steam-tram rails. Messines now awe-fully near: a terrible place of machine-guns. With relief he saw a peasant in a black suit and peaked cap walking, with a pail in his hand, near the cross-roads. He had a huge moustache. He stopped and stared. Phillip waved; he must keep on pedalling, for if he stopped, he might be asked awkward questions, even be taken prisoner.

  “Bon jour, m’sieu! Santé!”

  The man stared, his peak-capped moustache-faced head moving round slowly, like a dummy’s, as Phillip passed him.

  Which way? Straight over the cross-roads was best. He went straight on, leaving the half-broken church behind. Going through the square, he tried to look as careless as possible, riding with one hand on the handlebars only, the other on his bare knee. He was now enclosed between houses on both sides, with white billet-numbers on them. Where did the road in front lead to? It was the wrong way to Wulverghem, judging by the direction of the sun: for Wulverghem, to where they had retreated, had been west of Messines, and the sun was in front, more or less south.

  If any German sentry stopped him he would be able to tell them the truth: he had gone to watch the football match, and then thought he would look for his dead friend. How lucky he had come at just the right time, when everyone was eating, or sleeping after, Christmas dinner!

  It would end all right, if only the wheels held out. The front wheel was twanging a bit, with a wonky spoke or two. He must go on slowly, and all would be well. To an imaginary hard-eyed German officer he heard himself saying, I saw your unbeknown German heroes being buried; and I came to pay my respects to my dead comrades.

  When the road forked, or rather the tram lines turned to the left, he found he could not decide which way to go, so he followed the lines. Whatever he did, he must not stop, it would break the luck.

  The road sloped down; he could free-wheel. Where did it lead? He must think. The sun would be west of south now, as it was about half an hour since he left White Sheet, round about twelve thirty. So it must now be one o’clock. O, what was he trying to think? Start again. If the sun was sou’-sou’-west, and on his back, as it was, then he was heading nor’-nor’-east, which was straight behind the German lines. Where did the steam-tram go to—Lille?

  It was an alarming thought. Then he saw, not very far away and below, the dim suggestion of a fairly big wood. This must be the one south of Wulverghem, where the London Rifles were. Yes, as the road curved, so that the sun was on his right cheek once more, he could see that it led down to level ground extending to the distant wood. There was a little bridge in front, slightly hump-backed; he rattled over it, seeing a narrow stream below.

  Phillip’s misgivings had made of the ride an ordeal; but the worst was to come. His mouth went dry when he saw in front, where the road went through a small cutting that gave cover from view, some field-grey figures standing; and pedalling nearer, he saw wheels, spade-trails, the barrels of field guns, under wooden shelters roofed with faggots. A German battery!

  He felt himself going white. He thought of the story of the plowman and the grey horses, plowing furrows to point at a British battery. Shot as a spy!

  He was being stared at. They were all smoking new meerschaum pipes. Feeling a little French beard on his chin, he sliced a hand upwards from the elbow, and cried out, in a voice thin and throaty, “Bon jour, messieurs! Kronprinz prächtig Kerl! Hoch der Kaiser!” and rode on past one gun, then, another, and another, hoping that, as obviously they didn’t know what to make of him, bare-headed in a goat-skin, kilt and khaki puttees, he would be out of their way before anyone of them might think to stop him. To extend the period of their wonder, he curved his arm over his head and scratched exaggeratedly. He could feel their eyes like potential bullets, directed towards his shoulder blades.

  *

  There were some ruined cottages in front. The narrow lane was very rough; shell-holes grey with ice. He must be just behind the German support trench. Yes, there before him, a hundred yards away, was the barricade. He had to walk now, his legs were weak, but he managed to wheel the bike forward, trying not to have a strained expression on his face He was trembling, he looked straight ahead, deliberately avoiding a glance at the German trench. The grasses on the road looked very fresh and green, the metalling clean, washed by rains, untrodden. Eyes on the road before him, he pushed on towards the last sandbag barricade beside a roadside cottage.

  So near and yet so far. Fear rose out of the ground, all about him, as though of the exhalations of the spirits of the hatless British dead lying on the ground.

  Perhaps they had been killed in the attack of 19 December, one of many made all along the line in order to hold down the German divisions which otherwise would have been sent to Russia. Living German faces were looking at him, as he could see from his retinae as he moved through a thousand dragging threads of fear, his face feeling transparent, his glance upon the ground. Slowly the big barricade of the German front trench became larger in its fixedness across the lane, beside a white estaminet stabbed all over with bullet marks in its plaster. A thin ragged hedge, clipped and cut by bullets, stood on the other side of the lane. How could he get past that solid-looking barricade? It was frizzed with coils of wire above and around it. He must leave the bike there, and try and find a gap. Ah, there was a way between the sandbag’d door of the estaminet and the barricade. Now he was walking on an area, unrecognised as a field, torn up by circular shell-holes in places; and fifty yards away stood a group of mixed and mud-stained soldiers in khaki greatcoats, goat-skins, and feld-grau jackets. He was safe; he was in No Man’s Land.

  “Can you tell me the name of this place, please?”

  “St. Yves. ’Oo are yer?”

  “London Highlanders. Who are you?”

  “Warwicks.”

  “I’m looking for the London Rifles.”

  Thumbs jerked—“Down there.”

  Through the fraternising soldiers, on the frozen level field, he walked towards some cottages seen in the near distance. He asked again.

  “East Lancs, mate.”

  He went on, past Somersets, and Hampshires. He saw a peasant in the usual black suit being led away to behind the British lines. He had come up to look at his property—the white estaminet stabbed all over with bullets.

  “I say, can you tell me where the London Rifles——?”

  “We are the London Rifles!”

  “Oh, good!”

  “I say—who are you?”

  “London Highlanders.”

  “London Highlanders? Are they here?”

  �
�No, up north—near White Sheet.”

  “Have you just come down from there?”

  More men of the Rifles were now gathering round him.

  “Didn’t you come from behind the German lines?”

  “Yes. I came along the Messines crest, on a bike.”

  “A bike? From behind the German lines?”

  “Where did you leave it?”

  “Leaning against their barricade over there.”

  “Good God!”

  “Were you with the London Highlanders at the battle of Messines?”

  Questions followed in quick succession. He looked from one face to another.

  “Give him a chance to speak, you fellows,” said someone, who thereupon in the silence began to ask his own questions. “You did say you were with the original battalion at Messines?”

  “Yes.”

  The questioner looked at him intently. “Mean to say you’ve been a prisoner ever since the bayonet charge?”

  “Good lord, no! I wasn’t taken prisoner.”

  “Then how did you come to be wandering free behind the German lines?”

  “I just went there for a bike ride.”

  “What, right behind their lines?”

  “Yes. Some of our fellows went behind them to have a football match, so I thought I’d have a look round. Then I came on here, on the off-chance of finding one of your chaps, called Maddison.”

  “Maddison? What company?”

  “I don’t exactly know.”

  “Maddison? Anyone know Maddison? Sure he’s with the first battalion, and not with the second at home?” No-one knew Maddison. “He may be down in front of the convent.”

  Phillip was now the centre of about a hundred men, in khaki and grey. One of the Germans listening to him was a tall officer, who looked steadily at him when he had finished speaking. Phillip felt he was thinking about the battery he had passed in the sunken lane; and this feeling was confirmed when the German officer approached him and said in a quiet voice, “May I have a word with you? Shall we walk this way, and see the prie Dieu at the Cross-Roads—we ‘huns’ have not yet succeeded in shooting it down, you will be able to observe, to the satisfaction of some of your newspapers,” as he indicated the several new crosses of ration-box wood set up over various new graves in No Man’s Land that day.

  The tall German officer went on, “May I count on the word of a London Highlander, that you will regard your recent visit behind our lines as, shall we say, never for a moment approximating to that of an agent?”

  “An agent, sir?”

  “A spy.”

  “Oh no, I wasn’t for a moment spying, sir.”

  Phillip saw that they were closely followed by a German soldier wearing a green shoulder cord. He looked from the officer’s orderly to the officer himself, at the big pink face, the expressionless grey eyes, the clean-shaven lips which had hardly moved during the speaking of the words.

  “I am glad to hear it,” the voice went on, “otherwise you would be my prisoner, do you understand. We are still at war.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you give me your word?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now may I ask you some questions of purely personal interest to myself. How did your government manage to supply you with so many Maxim guns at the battle for Yper, or as you call it—Ypres?”

  “Maxim guns? We had none.”

  “No Maxim guns? But everywhere our troops met with withering fire, both frontally, and across—no machine-guns?”

  “It was the ‘fifteen rounds rapid’ that did it, sir.”

  “And your overwhelming reinforcements.”

  “But we hadn’t any, sir. We had no reserves, other than local, of course,” he said. “We’ve got a great many now!”

  “I see. Would it amuse you to know that our High Command broke off the battle because your woods were supposedly full of hidden reserves, while we had no more regiments—we were putting in students, with one rifle among three—— War is full of surprises.” He paused. “Well—auf wiedersehen, my English, or should I say Scottish friend? This war will not last for ever. Perhaps we may meet again when it is over. Until then, goodbye, I am happy to rely on your word.” The German clicked his heels, and bowed.

  Phillip came to attention, and bowed. What an extraordinary thing for the Germans at Ypres to be as exhausted as the British had been—and to think that the machine-guns were all on the British side——

  Having asked the way to the convent, Phillip walked on. He was approaching a group of cottages about a cross-roads when he came upon a burial party. They had evidently just finished; for as he drew near, a German officer gave a sharp command, at which a German soldier came forward smartly, carrying an armful of ration-box wooden crosses. The officer pointed to one of the new graves. The soldier snatched off his round grey cap, with its red band, and knelt to put one of the crosses upon the loose earth.

  Phillip was reading, Für Vaterland und Freiheit in purple indelible pencil, when he felt his arm touched.

  “Hullo, Phil!”

  “Willie!”

  They stared at one another delightedly. Phillip felt warmth spreading over his body. They shook hands, while he thought how very young his cousin looked, his brown eyes large and eager like a child’s, with his badgeless cap, his greatcoat with the skirt roughly cut off, his face pale and wan. He was only seventeen, too young to have come out. The friend of his boyhood had recently been killed, one of the first casualties in the battalion.

  Willie was full of the strangeness of the Christmas Day.

  “I’ve been talking to a Saxon, Phil, all night. We went out to the wire, at the same time. It’s most extraordinary, but the Germans think exactly about the war as we do! They can’t lose, they say, because God is on their side. And they say they are fighting for civilisation, just as we are! Surely, if all the Germans and all the English knew this, at home, then this ghastly war would end. If we started to walk back, and they did, too, it would be over!”

  “I wish it were as easy as that, Willie.”

  “But it is true, Phillip!”

  “It would be a miracle if it could happen.”

  “But this is a miracle now, Phil! Look, ‘For Fatherland and Freedom’! Isn’t that just the same as our side’s ‘For God, King, and Country’. They are the same things! Both sides are fighting with identical ideas to drive them on. Why then, when everyone wants it to stop, should it have to go on? I’ll tell you. Because the people at home do not know the whole truth! They think that the whole truth is one-sided, like Uncle Dick, who says, ‘Look what they’ve done to Belgium, raping, Uhlans cutting off children’s hands, the burning of Louvain——.’ Well, they did burn Louvain, I suppose, out of what they call ‘Frightfulness’, to strike terror into the civilian population, like freezing a gum before pulling out a tooth. But, so far as I can make out, most of the newspaper atrocities never really happened.”

  “Oh, none of us believe all that stuff in the papers,” said Phillip. “We know that they shot Belgian franc-tireurs, civvies who killed some of their scouts when they found them camping, or bivouacking. We’d have to do the same if we were in German territory. Everyone knows that.”

  “My Saxon friend told me that a lot of bad things were done by the gaol-birds in their ranks, who did rape and murder, but hundreds were court-martialled for it,” said Willie.

  “Well, I can vouch for one thing,” said Phillip. “A German confirmed just now that some of their mass attacks on Ypres were made by students having only one rifle among three of them. That was a rumour at the time, with us. Christ knows we were untrained enough, but some of the Germans were absolute school kids. They even came over singing. The newspapers talk about German efficiency, but I don’t believe it, at least, not as regards preparing for this war. Why, I’ve talked to dozens of regulars who were at Mons on that Sunday! They said some of our fellows were bathing in the canal, when suddenly they saw horsemen on the skyline
above them. They turned out to be Uhlans, as surprised as themselves, as they realised when the Uhlans turned round and bunked! Mons was then being made into our advance base; the staff thought the Germans were a hundred miles away! The Germans thought we were still at Boulogne! In fact, one German this morning, up our way, told one of our chaps that their General Staff didn’t know that the British Expeditionary Force had landed in France until they read of it ten days afterwards in a Dutch newspaper! Then the Germans thought that we had many more troops at Ypres than they had, and machine-guns, too—so they broke off the attacks, being out-numbered. It was our ‘fifteen rounds rapid’ that seemed to them to be machine-guns! Shows how even the highest authorities can blunder, doesn’t it?”

  “I think it is all very simple really, Phil. It’s like the wind-up, both sides firing away, thinking the other is going to attack. Yet no-one does attack.”

  “Not now, perhaps!—but six weeks ago, I can tell you, it was quite a different story! When I look back, I can’t think how I lived through it. Most of our chaps copped it, you know.”

  “Yes, we read about it, Phil, at Bleak Hill. We went there after you’d left. Is it terrible, being in a bayonet charge?”

  “The thought is terrible before, and after, when you think about it. But when it is happening, it all seems to be like in a bad dream, all the movement, I mean. I don’t think anyone can feel anything but awfully queer, but some feel less fear than others. Like Peter Wallace—you know, one of the original Bloodhounds. He really was brave. He went to save the M.O., who continued to kneel to attend the wounded when the Bavarians broke through at Messines, and lost his glasses, and couldn’t see. So he got hold of a German and went for him with his fists, and was bayoneted. His two brothers went to his aid, and were bayoneted too. Peter would have got the V.C., if it hadn’t been a defeat, our chaps say.”