Jnly 13, 191O 
LAND & WATER 
Fear 
By Patrick MacGill 
17 
THE nocturnal rustling of the field surrounded 
me, the dead men lay everywhere and anyhow, 
some head-downwards in shell holes, others 
sitting upright as they were caught by a fatal 
Dullet when dressing their wounds. Many were spread 
out at full length, their legs close together, their arms 
extended, crucifixes fashioned from decaying flesh 
wrapped in khaki. Nature, vast and terrible, stretched 
out on all sides ; a red star shell in the misty heavens 
looked like a lurid wound dripping with blood. Loos was 
a mile away Irom the trench and I was going down there 
for water. 
I walked slowly, my eyes fixed steadily on the field 
ahead, for I did not desire to trip over the dead, who lay 
ever^'where. As I walked a shell whistled over my head 
and burst against the Twin Towers, and my gaze rested 
on the explosion. At that moment 1 tripped on some- 
thing soft and went headlong across it. I got to my feet 
again and looked at the dead man. The corpse was a 
mere condensation of shadows with a blurred though 
definite outline. It was -a remainder and a reminder ; 
a remnant of clashing steel, of rushing figures, of loud- 
voiced imprecations — of war, a reminder of mad passion, 
of organised hatred, of victory and defeat. Engirt 
with the solitude and loneliness of the night it wasted 
away, though no waste could alter it now ; it was a man 
who was not ; henceforth it would be that and that alone. 
For the thing there was not the quietude of death and 
the privacy of the tomb, it was outcast frorh its kind. 
Buffeted by the breeze, battered by the rains it rotted in 
the open. The air was full of it, the night stunk with 
its decay. Life revolted at that from which life was gone, 
the quick cast it away for h was not of them. The corpse 
was one with the mystery of the night, the darkness and 
the void. In Loos the ruined houses looked gloomy by 
day, by night they were ghastly. A house is a ruin when 
the family that dwelt within its walls is gone ; but by 
midnight in the waste, how horrible looks the house of 
flesh from which the soul has departed. We are vaguely 
aware of what has happened when we look upon the 
tenantless home, but man is stricken dumb when he 
sees the tenantless body of one of his kind. I could 
only stare at the corpse until I felt that my eyes were as 
glassy as those on which I gazed. The stiffness of the 
dead was communicated to my being, the silence was 
infectious; I hardly dared to breathe. " This _ is the 
end of all the mad scurry and rush," I said. "What 
purpose does it serve ? And why do I stand here looking 
at the thing ? " There were thousands of dead around 
Loos ; fifty thousand perhaps, scattered over a few 
square miles of country, unburied. Some men even 
might still be dying. 
The bullets whistled past my ears. The Germans had a 
machine gun and several fixed rifles trained on the Vall^ 
crossroads outside Loos, and all night long these mes- 
sengers of death sped out to meet the soldiers coming 
up the road and chase the soldiers going down. 
The sight of the dead man had shaken me ; I felt 
nervous and could not restrain myself from looking back 
over my shoulders at intervals. I had a feeling that 
something was following me, a Presence, vague and 
terrible, a spectre of the midnight and the field of death. 
I am superstitious after a fashion, and I fear the 
solitude of the night and the silent obscurity of the dark- 
ness. Once, at Vcrmelles, I passed through a deserted 
' trench in the dusk. There the parapet and parados was 
fringed with graves, and decrepit dug-outs leant wearily 
on their props like hags on crutches. A number of the 
dug-outs had fallen in, probably on top of the sleepmg 
occupants, and no one had time to dig the victims out. 
"Such things often happen in the trenches, and in wet 
weather when the sodden dug-outs cave in, many men 
are buried alive. 
The trench wound wayward as a river through the fields, 
its traverse steeped in shadow, its bays full of mystery. 
As I walked through the maze my mind was lull of pre- 
sentiments of evil. I was full of expectation, everything 
seemed to be leading up to happenings weird and uncanny 
things which would not be of this world. The trench 
was peopled with spectres ; soldiers, fully armed, stood 
on the firing steps, their faces towards the enemj". I 
could see them as I entered a bay, but on coming closer 
the phantoms died away. The boys in khaki were tilted 
sandbags heaped on the banquette, the bayonets splinters 
of wood sharply defined against the sky. As if to heighten 
the illusion, torn ground sheets hanging from the parados, 
made sounds like travelling shells, as the breezes caught 
them and brushed them against the wall. 
I went into a bay to see something dark grey and 
shapeless bulked in a heap on the fire step. Another heap 
of sandbags I thought. But no. In the darkness of the 
weird locality realities were exaggerated and the heap 
which I thought was a large one was in reality very 
small ; the mere soldier, dead in the trench, looked 
enormous in my eyes. The man's bayonet was pressed 
between his elbow and side, his head bending forward 
' almost touched the knees, and both the man's hands 
were clasped across it as if for protection. A splinter 
of shell which he stooped to avoid must have caught 
him. He now was the sole occupant of the deserted 
trench, this poor frozen effigy of fear. The trench was a 
grave unfilled ... I scrambled over the top and 
took my way -across the Open towards my company. 
Once, at midnight, I came through the deserted village 
of BuUy-Grenay, where every house was built exactly 
like its neighbour. War has played havoc with the pattern, 
however, most of the houses are shell-stricken, and some 
are levelled to the ground. The church stands on a little 
knoll near the coal-mine, and a shell has dug a big hole 
in the floor of the aisle. A statue of the Blessed Virgin 
sticks head downwards in the hole ; how it got into this 
ludicrous position is a mystery. 
The Germans were shelling the village as I came 
through. Shrapnel swept the streets and high explosives 
played havoc with the mine ; I had no love for a place in 
such a phght. In front of me a limber was smashed to 
pieces, the driver was dead, the offside wheeler dead, the 
nearside wheeler dying and kicking its mate in the belly 
with vicious hooves. On either side of me were deserted 
houses with the doors open and shadows brooding in the 
interior. The cellars would afford secure shelter until 
the row was over, but I feared the darkness and the gloom 
more than I feared the shells in the open street. When 
the splinters swept perilously near to my head I made 
instinctively for an open door, but the shadows seemed to 
thrust me back with a powerful hand. To save my life 
I would not go into a house and seek refuge in the cellars. 
I fear the solitude of the night, but I can never ascer- 
tain what it is I fear in it. I am not particularly interested 
in the supernatural and spiritualism, and table rapping is 
not at all to my taste. In a crowded room a spirit in 
my way of thinking loses its dignity and power to impress, 
and I am at times compelled to laugh at those who believe 
in manifestations of disembodied spirits. 
Once, at Givenchy, a soldier in all seriousness spoke of 
a strange sight which he h^d seen. Givenchy church 
has only one wall standing, and a large black crucifix 
with its nailed Christ is fixed to this wall. From the 
trenches on a moonlight night it is possible to see the 
symbol of sorrow with its white figure which seems to keep 
eternal watch over the line of battle. The soldier of 
whom I speak was on guard ; the night was very clear, 
and the enemy were shelling Givenchy church. A 
splinter of shell knocked part of the arm of the cross away. 
The soldier on watch vowed that he saw a luminous hale 
settle around the figure on the Cross. It detached itsell 
from its nails, came down to the ground, and put the 
fallen wood back to its place. Then the Crucified 
resumed His exposed position again on the Cross. It 
was natural that the listeners should say that the sentry 
was drunk. 
It is strange how the altar <*»f Givenchy church and its 
symbol of Supreme . Agony has escaped destruction. 
Many crosses in wayside shrines have been untouched 
though the locality in which they stand is swept with 
eternal artillery fire. 
