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Authors: Henry Williamson
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came the crackle of rifle and machine-gun fire. Probably a German raid: he could hear the fast stutter of Lewis guns.
“Ah ha, you went to bed with that arse-piece!” said the Quartermaster, to Allen. “Little slam, partner!” Moggerhanger threw down his last three cards. “’Oo’s shuffle? Come on, get a move on.”
The third rubber had just finished, nine hundred down, when the door opened and Major Marsden came in. His trench coat was dripping, it was now raining hard. He brought the news that a German raiding party of considerable strength, following on a bombardment with h.e. and mustard gas, had got into the battalion outpost line, and bombed its way up to the main defence line.
“Three of our men were taken prisoner, and I’m afraid our casualties are pretty heavy, mainly from yellow-cross, but therewas some blue-cross, too. Eighty odd, all of Bill Kidd’s company. The Boche left behind a wounded man, who confirmed that the country for fifty miles behind their lines was stiff with troops marching up at night, and lying doggo in villages by day.”
“Wind!” snarled Moggerhanger. “They’ve been told to say it! Every bloody Hun pinched so far gives us the same ol’ tale! It’s a bluff! The Germans aren’t bloody fools! They know they couldn’t get far, with practically no roads over the old Somme battlefield! They’ll push up north, the shortest way to the Channel ports! I’ll lay you fifty francs to twenty it’s all a bluff down ’ere! And what’s more, it’s stoppin’ me from ’oppin’ it for ’ome!”
He downed his whiskey, and banged the empty mug on the table.
Phillip looked with concealed scorn at the Quartermaster’s face. What did any quartermaster know of the real war, when he had slept every night in a bed for years? His fancy played satirically with the red-purple of the old man’s face, ruinous and arrogant: the eyebrows, or lack of them, were the Passchendaele ridge of the north-eastern slopes of the Salient, coloured by ten thousand tins of bully beef. Here was the embodiment of the bad old soldier-philosophy—“F—k you Jack, I’m all right.”
At midnight, having lost three thousand points by consistent over-calling, and paid out thirty francs, Phillip asked if he might go up the line to see Colonel West.
“What’s up, you’re so bloody restless, you the Old Man’s bum boy?” asked Moggerhanger.
Phillip pushed back his chair and, standing up, said, “You may be my senior officer, Colonel, but that does not give you the right to make such remarks!”
“Come come,” said Marsden, gently, as he continued to inspect one of his twin ‘Captain’ pipes in their case. “We’re all friends here. You don’t know our old Moggers, Maddison. If he really thought that there was anything like that, he would be the last to mention it.”
“That’s right, old cock. Don’t take no notice of me, I never mean what I say. Isn’t that right, Pluggy? You’ll soon get used to my ways. I mean no ’arm. ’Elp yerself to a spot of old man whiskey, Lampers. Never let it be said that the talkin’ stopped the drinkin’.”
“Thank you, Colonel–
“Cut out the ‘colonel’. I’m Moggers.” The Quartermaster gave him a prolonged wink. “You’ll do, Lampo.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper—Moggers.”
The two younger subalterns went to bed, while the three continued to sit by the dull red stove. Outside the wind was blowing strongly, causing little fringes of flame to issue from the bottom of the grate. Two empty whiskey bottles lay on the floor. As Moggers talked on—about his early days as a crowstarver, and then in the Army, Phillip began to feel his underlying steadiness. He had thought him to be dense and dull, like the heavy soil of the farmlands upon which he had been raised; now he saw him as part of the strength and solidity of gault clay, which had made bricks enduring since Tudor times. He felt ashamed of his former attitude towards the old
“Ah ha, you went to bed with that arse-piece!” said the Quartermaster, to Allen. “Little slam, partner!” Moggerhanger threw down his last three cards. “’Oo’s shuffle? Come on, get a move on.”
The third rubber had just finished, nine hundred down, when the door opened and Major Marsden came in. His trench coat was dripping, it was now raining hard. He brought the news that a German raiding party of considerable strength, following on a bombardment with h.e. and mustard gas, had got into the battalion outpost line, and bombed its way up to the main defence line.
“Three of our men were taken prisoner, and I’m afraid our casualties are pretty heavy, mainly from yellow-cross, but therewas some blue-cross, too. Eighty odd, all of Bill Kidd’s company. The Boche left behind a wounded man, who confirmed that the country for fifty miles behind their lines was stiff with troops marching up at night, and lying doggo in villages by day.”
“Wind!” snarled Moggerhanger. “They’ve been told to say it! Every bloody Hun pinched so far gives us the same ol’ tale! It’s a bluff! The Germans aren’t bloody fools! They know they couldn’t get far, with practically no roads over the old Somme battlefield! They’ll push up north, the shortest way to the Channel ports! I’ll lay you fifty francs to twenty it’s all a bluff down ’ere! And what’s more, it’s stoppin’ me from ’oppin’ it for ’ome!”
He downed his whiskey, and banged the empty mug on the table.
Phillip looked with concealed scorn at the Quartermaster’s face. What did any quartermaster know of the real war, when he had slept every night in a bed for years? His fancy played satirically with the red-purple of the old man’s face, ruinous and arrogant: the eyebrows, or lack of them, were the Passchendaele ridge of the north-eastern slopes of the Salient, coloured by ten thousand tins of bully beef. Here was the embodiment of the bad old soldier-philosophy—“F—k you Jack, I’m all right.”
At midnight, having lost three thousand points by consistent over-calling, and paid out thirty francs, Phillip asked if he might go up the line to see Colonel West.
“What’s up, you’re so bloody restless, you the Old Man’s bum boy?” asked Moggerhanger.
Phillip pushed back his chair and, standing up, said, “You may be my senior officer, Colonel, but that does not give you the right to make such remarks!”
“Come come,” said Marsden, gently, as he continued to inspect one of his twin ‘Captain’ pipes in their case. “We’re all friends here. You don’t know our old Moggers, Maddison. If he really thought that there was anything like that, he would be the last to mention it.”
“That’s right, old cock. Don’t take no notice of me, I never mean what I say. Isn’t that right, Pluggy? You’ll soon get used to my ways. I mean no ’arm. ’Elp yerself to a spot of old man whiskey, Lampers. Never let it be said that the talkin’ stopped the drinkin’.”
“Thank you, Colonel–
“Cut out the ‘colonel’. I’m Moggers.” The Quartermaster gave him a prolonged wink. “You’ll do, Lampo.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper—Moggers.”
The two younger subalterns went to bed, while the three continued to sit by the dull red stove. Outside the wind was blowing strongly, causing little fringes of flame to issue from the bottom of the grate. Two empty whiskey bottles lay on the floor. As Moggers talked on—about his early days as a crowstarver, and then in the Army, Phillip began to feel his underlying steadiness. He had thought him to be dense and dull, like the heavy soil of the farmlands upon which he had been raised; now he saw him as part of the strength and solidity of gault clay, which had made bricks enduring since Tudor times. He felt ashamed of his former attitude towards the old
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