Pushed and the Return Push | Page 3

it for a ten-centime piece. When the tumult began a
third time I made off. No wonder the Germans only tried the instrument
once!
By 8 P.M. we found ourselves in a sort of junction village, its two main
roads alive with long lines of moving batteries and lorries and transport
waggons. Inky blackness everywhere, for the Hun bombed the place
nightly, and "No lights" was a standing order. Odd shouts and curses
from drivers in difficulties with their steeds; the continuous cry of
"Keep to the right!" from the military police; from a garden close by,
the howl of an abandoned dog; and from some dilapidated house
Cockney voices harmonising: "It's a Long, Long Trail." There would be
no moon that night, and a moaning wind was rising.
A halt had been called in front of our column, and there was talk of the
batteries watering their horses before completing the further three miles
to their roadside encampments. The Headquarters party had resigned
themselves to a good hour's wait, when I heard the adjutant's voice
calling my name.
"Headquarters will go up to Rouez to-night, and we shall mess with the
General," he shouted at me from out of the darkness. "Traffic isn't
supposed to go this way to the right; but you come with me, and we'll
talk to the A.P., at the Corps Commandant's office. They ought to let
our little lot through."
Headquarters mess cart and G.S. waggon, Maltese cart and telephone
waggon did indeed get through, and by 9.15 P.M. the horses were
watered and fed, the men housed, and we ourselves were at dinner in
the cottage that had become Divisional R.A. Headquarters.
A cheerful dinner with plenty of talk. It wasn't believed now that the
Hun would attack next morning; but, in any case, we were going up to
relieve a R.H.A. unit. The brigade-major was very comforting about the
conveniences of our new positions. Then some one carried the
conversation away and beyond, and, quoting an "Ole Luk-Oie" story,

submitted that the higher realms of generalship should include the
closer study of the personal history and characteristics--mental and
moral--of enemy commanders. Some one else noted that the supposed
speciality of the General immediately opposite us was that of making
fierce attacks across impassable marshes. "Good," put in a third some
one. "Let's puzzle the German staff by persuading him that we have an
Etonian General in this part of the line, a very celebrated 'wet-bob.'"
Which sprightly suggestion made the Brigadier-General smile. But it
was my good fortune to go one better. I had to partner him at bridge,
and brought off a grand slam.
Next morning snow; and the colonel, the adjutant, and myself had a
seven-miles' ride before us. The Germans had not attacked, but the
general move-up of fresh divisions was continuing, and our brigade had
to take over the part of the line we were told off to defend by 5 P.M.
All the talk on the way up was of the beautiful quietude of the area we
were riding through: no weed-choked houses with the windows all
blown in; no sound of guns, no line of filled-up ambulances; few lorries
on the main thoroughfares; only the khaki-clad road-repairers and the
"Gas Alert" notice-boards to remind us we were in a British area. As
we reached the quarry that was to become Brigade Headquarters, we
marvelled still more. A veritable quarry de luxe. A mess fashioned out
of stone-blocks hewn from the quarry, perfectly cut and perfectly laid.
Six-inch girders to support the concrete roof, and an underground
passage as a funk-hole from bombs, shells, and gas. Separate
strong-room bedrooms for the officers; and some one had had time to
paint on the doors, "O.C., R.F.A. Brigade," "Adjutant," "Intelligence
Officer, R.F.A.," and "Signal Officer, R.F.A.," with proper professional
skill. Electric light laid on to all these quarters, and to the Brigade
office and the signallers' underground chamber. Aladdin didn't enjoy a
more gorgeous eye-opener on his first tour of his palace.
"Never seen such headquarters," grinned the adjutant. "Wonder why
there's no place for the Divisional Band."
I shall never forget the content of the next week. The way from Brigade
H.Q., past the batteries and up to the front line, was over a wide rolling

country of ploughed and fallow lands, of the first wild flowers, of
budding hedgerows, of woods in which birds lilted their spring songs.
The atmosphere was fresh and redolent of clean earth; odd shell-holes
you came across were, miracle of miracles, grass-grown--a sight for
eyes tired with the drab stinking desolation of Flanders. A more than
spring warmth quickened growing things. White tendrils of fluff floated
strangely in the air, and spread thousands of soft clinging threads over
telephone-wires, tree-tops, and across miles of