LAND AND WATER 
October 30, 1915. 
BEHIND THE FIRING LINE. 
By An Officer. 
A DEAD straight pave road stretches ahead 
between lines of pophirs. Tlie surface 
is all greasy after the rains, the mtid 
mashed up by the feet of thousands. Leav- 
ing the open field where the troops had rested, 
we march along this highway towards tlie sound of the 
guns. Orderlies and pioneer officers on bicycles are 
verv numerous. _ . . 
' At the cross-roads a red-capped staff officer is sittmg 
on iiorseback by the roadside. The message he gives to 
the troops as they pass is tliat the first two lines of 
German trenches have been taken with sliglu loss. A 
little later another " red-cap " rides down the column 
on a bicycle, giving the news that the first three 
lines have been captured. This cheers the soldiers 
immensely, and, after the manner of his kind, Private 
Thomas Atkins immediately begins romancing about 
the quarters he will occupy in Berlin next week ; for 
he is ingenuously under the impression that success 
here means an early end to the war. Progress is some- 
what slow as the road is alive with troops and movement 
of all kinds. Orderlies on horseback and bicycles dasli 
past, great grey staff motor-cars hoot their way im- 
periously through the mass of men, transport-wagons 
and Red Cross motor-ambulances in various stages of 
mechanical difficulty help to block the road. 
Collages and Farmhouses. 
All the wayside cottages and farmhouses have their 
quota of troops, who are awaiting their turn to move up 
to the firing-line. Presently we wheel off into a labyrinth 
of lanes winding tlvis way and that, and now we are 
within effective range of the German artillery. Already 
this morning one section of the road which runs parallel 
to our front has been liberally shelled, and, as a precau- 
tion, therefore, we move in artillery formation across the 
fields. Safely on the road again, the thunder of the guns 
seems very close. 
Right and left as we pass them— concealed as they 
are behind hedgerows, in orchards and farmyards — 
howitzer batteries can be seen firing furiously : a flash, a 
boom, a recoil, and the little gunners — looking at a 
distance like so many busy insects — rush forward to re- 
charge their gims. There they are with their shirt- 
sleeves rolled up and braces hanging loose working like 
demons at the smoking breeches. 
Now we turn aside into a sheltered meadow by a 
farmstead. Packs are taken off and the men sit dow n for 
a rest, since we are likely to remain here some time. 
It is now a mild, sunny morning, and the chill 
■wind has gone down. With all the sounds of war and 
death at hand, the countryside looks peaceful enough. 
Two fields away a peasant is ploughing stolidly, heed- 
less of the shells which now- and again scream over his 
head. The greatest battle in the world's history may be 
raging a mile and a half away, but that is no reason why 
he should not finish his spring ploughing. Near bv a 
little stream eddies through reeds and water-plants, 
making tinkling music, and its sunny banks are agree- 
ably warm. Sk\ larks rise and sing not less vigorously, 
not less merrily than on any quiet morning of an Knglish 
springtime, though their outpourings are drowned at 
times in the whirr and buzz of circling aeroplanes. 
The first tangible indications of (he battle are the 
wounded men who now come trickling back along the 
road. Hluocly heads and hands rouglily bandaged for 
the most part; albeit, now and then a still figure on a 
stretcher with chalky, quiet face tells a sadder storv. 
And they arc not in the least cheerful or boastful, as oiir 
daily newspapers delight to depict the \vounded Tommy ; 
biitjather woebegone and very subdued. 
" It was hell," they remark solemnIy--for where is 
the sense of pretending that a common mortal feek 
heroic on coming out of a bloody holocaust ? 
Types of Prisoners. 
And presently there comes a procession of German 
prisoners marching between French Territorials— fine 
great men of the Prussian Guard, very stolid and expres- 
sionless, with coarse typically Teuton faces. There are 
smaller fry, too, Saxons and Alsatians, rather untidy and 
unsoldierfike, and looking with no great favour upon 
their comrades, the Prussians. Yet the former are the 
more intelligent, speaking excellent p-rench, in which 
language they are heard to disparage their officers : they 
are townsmen, whilst the Prussians are ignorant 
peasants. One and all admit the completeness of the 
surprise, to which, indeed, their lack of accoutrements 
and general disorder bear testimony. Nor \vould it be 
far wrong to say that every man jack of them is 
delighted to be a prisoner. 
The morning wears on. Silting on the sunny bank 
by the roadside, we watch the aeroplanes, French and 
English, ceaselessly circling overhead and journeying 
to and fro. They are like kites or hawks diligently 
obserA-ing their jDrey. Suddenly a whistling shriek 
rends the air. We look up instinctively, expecting a 
i6in. shell. But no ! W"e are petrified. We catch one 
glimpse of an aeroplane, already buckled and crump- 
ling, diving into the earth— then it is gone behind the 
trees. 
Nor is it long before another aeroplane descends 
safely, but by a hair's breadth. The petrol tank has a 
hole large enough to put your arm in. All the way from 
La Bass^e, where the German shrapnel had burst 
around it for half an hour on end, it had been leaking 
furiously. The two flying-men, looking particularly 
cheerful in their leathern garments and headgear, 
seemed to treat the whole matter as a joke. 
Batteries in Orchards. 
All this time the batteries in the orchards, en- 
closures, and farmyards just behind, had never ceased 
to boom and bang. Again and again the squat black 
howitzers, peeping from their screen of leaves, belch 
forth flame, jerk up their heads, and are immediately 
surrounded each by its little crowd of attendant 
gunners. 
It is now nearly two o'clock. We eat our chocolate 
rations and a few sandwiches. No more news comes 
through, no more prisoners or wounded. But for the 
ammunition limbers which constantly race along the 
road at breakneck speed to replenish their batteries, 
nothing in particular happens. Only the farmhouse 
near by is made the mark of the German guns, and mild 
interest is aroused when a shell lands on the roof and 
sets the thatch afire. Just at this juncture, however, 
word arrives to move down into the reserve trenches 
vacated by regiments that have gone up to the firing 
line. We find them in an orchard alongside a farm — 
good, clean trenches, newly dug. So far only an 
occasional German shell has come our way, but now we 
get a taste of them. Every few minutes comes the 
scream of lyddite or shrapnel which bursts amid yellow 
and white smoke in the next field. We are snugly en- 
sconced in our trenches. Eying down at the bottom to 
escape the chilly wind, we get some sleep. 
Meanwhile the men roam about the orchard gather- 
ing dry wood and sticks, with which they light their fires 
and crouch close to them. We. too, light a fire in the 
alcove of the trench, and soon there is much crackling. 
P., who has a genius for making tea, produces a tin 
cup and pannikin from his mess-lin, and presently we 
are quite comfortable sitting round waiting for" the 
expected summons. 
14 
