That is a brief summary of my military record in the latter part of 1917. I am not going to enlarge on the fighting. Except for the days of the Polygon Wood it was neither very severe nor very distinguished3, and you will find it in the history books. What I have to tell of here is my own personal quest, for all the time I was living with my mind turned two ways. In the morasses4 of the Haanebeek flats, in the slimy support lines at Zonnebeke, in the tortured uplands about Flesquieres, and in many other odd places I kept worrying at my private conundrum6. At night I would lie awake thinking of it, and many a toss I took into shell-holes and many a time I stepped off the duckboards, because my eyes were on a different landscape. Nobody ever chewed a few wretched clues into such a pulp7 as I did during those bleak8 months in Flanders and Picardy.
For I had an instinct that the thing was desperately9 grave, graver even than the battle before me. Russia had gone headlong to the devil, Italy had taken it between the eyes and was still dizzy, and our own prospects12 were none too bright. The Boche was getting uppish and with some cause, and I foresaw a rocky time ahead till America could line up with us in the field. It was the chance for the Wild Birds, and I used to wake in a sweat to think what devilry Ivery might be engineering. I believe I did my proper job reasonably well, but I put in my most savage13 thinking over the other. I remember how I used to go over every hour of every day from that June night in the Cotswolds till my last meeting with Bullivant in London, trying to find a new bearing. I should probably have got brain-fever, if I hadn’t had to spend most of my days and nights fighting a stiffish battle with a very watchful14 Hun. That kept my mind balanced, and I dare say it gave an edge to it; for during those months I was lucky enough to hit on a better scent15 than Bullivant and Macgillivray and Blenkiron, pulling a thousand wires in their London offices.
I will set down in order of time the various incidents in this private quest of mine. The first was my meeting with Geordie Hamilton. It happened just after I rejoined the brigade, when I went down to have a look at our Scots Fusilier battalion16. The old brigade had been roughly handled on 31st July, and had had to get heavy drafts to come anywhere near strength. The Fusiliers especially were almost a new lot, formed by joining our remnants to the remains17 of a battalion in another division and bringing about a dozen officers from the training unit at home.
I inspected the men and my eyes caught sight of a familiar face. I asked his name and the colonel got it from the sergeant18-major. It was Lance–Corporal George Hamilton.
Now I wanted a new batman, and I resolved then and there to have my old antagonist19. That afternoon he reported to me at brigade headquarters. As I looked at that solid bandy-legged figure, standing20 as stiff to attention as a tobacconist’s sign, his ugly face hewn out of brown oak, his honest, sullen21 mouth, and his blue eyes staring into vacancy22, I knew I had got the man I wanted.
‘Hamilton,’ I said, ‘you and I have met before.’
‘Sirr?’ came the mystified answer.
‘Look at me, man, and tell me if you don’t recognize me.’
He moved his eyes a fraction, in a respectful glance.
‘Sirr, I don’t mind of you.’
‘Well, I’ll refresh your memory. Do you remember the hall in Newmilns Street and the meeting there? You had a fight with a man outside, and got knocked down.’
He made no answer, but his colour deepened.
‘And a fortnight later in a public-house in Muirtown you saw the same man, and gave him the chase of his life.’
I could see his mouth set, for visions of the penalties laid down by the King’s Regulations for striking an officer must have crossed his mind. But he never budged23.
‘Look me in the face, man,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me now?’
He did as he was bid.
‘Sirr, I mind of you.’
‘Have you nothing more to say?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Sirr, I did not ken10 I was hittin’ an officer.’
‘Of course you didn’t. You did perfectly24 right, and if the war was over and we were both free men, I would give you a chance of knocking me down here and now. That’s got to wait. When you saw me last I was serving my country, though you didn’t know it. We’re serving together now, and you must get your revenge out of the Boche. I’m going to make you my servant, for you and I have a pretty close bond between us. What do you say to that?’
This time he looked me full in the face. His troubled eye appraised25 me and was satisfied. ‘I’m proud to be servant to ye, sirr,’ he said. Then out of his chest came a strangled chuckle26, and he forgot his discipline. ‘Losh, but ye’re the great lad!’ He recovered himself promptly27, saluted29, and marched off.
The second episode befell during our brief rest after the Polygon Wood, when I had ridden down the line one afternoon to see a friend in the Heavy Artillery30. I was returning in the drizzle31 of evening, clanking along the greasy32 path between the sad poplars, when I struck a Labour company repairing the ravages33 of a Boche strafe that morning. I wasn’t very certain of my road and asked one of the workers. He straightened himself and saluted, and I saw beneath a disreputable cap the features of the man who had been with me in the Coolin crevice34.
I spoke35 a word to his sergeant, who fell him out, and he walked a bit of the way with me.
‘Great Scot, Wake, what brought you here?’ I asked.
‘Same thing as brought you. This rotten war.’
I had dismounted and was walking beside him, and I noticed that his lean face had lost its pallor and that his eyes were less hot than they used to be.
‘You seem to thrive on it,’ I said, for I did not know what to say. A sudden shyness possessed36 me. Wake must have gone through some violent cyclones37 of feeling before it came to this. He saw what I was thinking and laughed in his sharp, ironical38 way.
‘Don’t flatter yourself you’ve made a convert. I think as I always thought. But I came to the conclusion that since the fates had made me a Government servant I might as well do my work somewhere less cushioned than a chair in the Home Office . . . Oh, no, it wasn’t a matter of principle. One kind of work’s as good as another, and I’m a better clerk than a navvy. With me it was self-indulgence: I wanted fresh air and exercise.’
I looked at him — mud to the waist, and his hands all blistered39 and cut with unaccustomed labour. I could realize what his associates must mean to him, and how he would relish40 the rough tonguing of non-coms.
‘You’re a confounded humbug,’ I said. ‘Why on earth didn’t you go into an O.T.C. and come out with a commission? They’re easy enough to get.’
‘You mistake my case,’ he said bitterly. ‘I experienced no sudden conviction about the justice of the war. I stand where I always stood. I’m a non-combatant, and I wanted a change of civilian41 work . . . No, it wasn’t any idiotic42 tribunal sent me here. I came of my own free will, and I’m really rather enjoying myself.’
‘It’s a rough job for a man like you,’ I said.
‘Not so rough as the fellows get in the trenches43. I watched a battalion marching back today and they looked like ghosts who had been years in muddy graves. White faces and dazed eyes and leaden feet. Mine’s a cushy job. I like it best when the weather’s foul44. It cheats me into thinking I’m doing my duty.’
I nodded towards a recent shell-hole. ‘Much of that sort of thing?’
‘Now and then. We had a good dusting this morning. I can’t say I liked it at the time, but I like to look back on it. A sort of moral anodyne45.’
‘I wonder what on earth the rest of your lot make of you?’
‘They don’t make anything. I’m not remarkable46 for my bonhomie. They think I’m a prig — which I am. It doesn’t amuse me to talk about beer and women or listen to a gramophone or grouse47 about my last meal. But I’m quite content, thank you. Sometimes I get a seat in a corner of a Y.M.C.A. hut, and I’ve a book or two. My chief affliction is the padre. He was up at Keble in my time, and, as one of my colleagues puts it, wants to be “too bloody48 helpful”. . . . What are you doing, Hannay? I see you’re some kind of general. They’re pretty thick on the ground here.’
‘I’m a sort of general. Soldiering in the Salient isn’t the softest of jobs, but I don’t believe it’s as tough as yours is for you. D’you know, Wake, I wish I had you in my brigade. Trained or untrained, you’re a dashed stout-hearted fellow.’
He laughed with a trifle less acidity49 than usual. ‘Almost thou persuadest me to be combatant. No, thank you. I haven’t the courage, and besides there’s my jolly old principles. All the same I’d like to be near you. You’re a good chap, and I’ve had the honour to assist in your education . . . I must be getting back, or the sergeant will think I’ve bolted.’
We shook hands, and the last I saw of him was a figure saluting50 stiffly in the wet twilight51.
The third incident was trivial enough, though momentous52 in its results. Just before I got the division I had a bout5 of malaria53. We were in support in the Salient, in very uncomfortable trenches behind Wieltje, and I spent three days on my back in a dug-out. Outside was a blizzard54 of rain, and the water now and then came down the stairs through the gas curtain and stood in pools at my bed foot. It wasn’t the merriest place to convalesce55 in, but I was as hard as nails at the time and by the third day I was beginning to sit up and be bored.
I read all my English papers twice and a big stack of German ones which I used to have sent up by a friend in the G.H.Q. Intelligence, who knew I liked to follow what the Boche was saying. As I dozed56 and ruminated57 in the way a man does after fever, I was struck by the tremendous display of one advertisement in the English press. It was a thing called ‘Gussiter’s Deep-breathing System,’ which, according to its promoter, was a cure for every ill, mental, moral, or physical, that man can suffer. Politicians, generals, admirals, and music-hall artists all testified to the new life it had opened up for them. I remember wondering what these sportsmen got for their testimonies58, and thinking I would write a spoof59 letter myself to old Gussiter.
Then I picked up the German papers, and suddenly my eye caught an advertisement of the same kind in the Frankfurter Zeitung. It was not Gussiter this time, but one Weissmann, but his game was identical —‘deep breathing’. The Hun style was different from the English — all about the Goddess of Health, and the Nymphs of the Mountains, and two quotations60 from Schiller. But the principle was the same.
That made me ponder a little, and I went carefully through the whole batch61. I found the advertisement in the Frankfurter and in one or two rather obscure Volkstimmes and Volkszeitungs. I found it too in Der Grosse Krieg, the official German propagandist picture-paper. They were the same all but one, and that one had a bold variation, for it contained four of the sentences used in the ordinary English advertisement.
This struck me as fishy62, and I started to write a letter to Macgillivray pointing out what seemed to be a case of trading with the enemy, and advising him to get on to Mr Gussiter’s financial backing. I thought he might find a Hun syndicate behind him. And then I had another notion, which made me rewrite my letter.
I went through the papers again. The English ones which contained the advertisement were all good, solid, bellicose63 organs; the kind of thing no censorship would object to leaving the country. I had before me a small sheaf of pacifist prints, and they had not the advertisement. That might be for reasons of circulation, or it might not. The German papers were either Radical64 or Socialist65 publications, just the opposite of the English lot, except the Grosse Krieg. Now we have a free press, and Germany has, strictly66 speaking, none. All her journalistic indiscretions are calculated. Therefore the Boche has no objection to his rags getting to enemy countries. He wants it. He likes to see them quoted in columns headed ‘Through German Glasses’, and made the text of articles showing what a good democrat67 he is becoming.
As I puzzled over the subject, certain conclusions began to form in my mind. The four identical sentences seemed to hint that ‘Deep Breathing’ had Boche affiliations68. Here was a chance of communicating with the enemy which would defy the argus-eyed gentlemen who examine the mails. What was to hinder Mr A at one end writing an advertisement with a good cipher69 in it, and the paper containing it getting into Germany by Holland in three days? Herr B at the other end replied in the Frankfurter, and a few days later shrewd editors and acute Intelligence officers — and Mr A— were reading it in London, though only Mr A knew what it really meant.
It struck me as a bright idea, the sort of simple thing that doesn’t occur to clever people, and very rarely to the Boche. I wished I was not in the middle of a battle, for I would have had a try at investigating the cipher myself. I wrote a long letter to Macgillivray putting my case, and then went to sleep. When I awoke I reflected that it was a pretty thin argument, and would have stopped the letter, if it hadn’t gone off early by a ration70 party.
After that things began very slowly to happen. The first was when Hamilton, having gone to Boulogne to fetch some mess-stores, returned with the startling news that he had seen Gresson. He had not heard his name, but described him dramatically to me as the wee red-headed devil that kicked Ecky Brockie’s knee yon time in Glesca, sirr,’ I recognized the description.
Gresson, it appeared, was joy-riding. He was with a party of Labour delegates who had been met by two officers and carried off in chars-a-bancs. Hamilton reported from inquiries71 among his friends that this kind of visitor came weekly. I thought it a very sensible notion on the Government’s part, but I wondered how Gresson had been selected. I had hoped that Macgillivray had weeks ago made a long arm and quodded him. Perhaps they had too little evidence to hang him, but he was the blackest sort of suspect and should have been interned72.
A week later I had occasion to be at G.H.Q. on business connected with my new division. My friends in the Intelligence allowed me to use the direct line to London, and I called up Macgillivray. For ten minutes I had an exciting talk, for I had had no news from that quarter since I left England. I heard that the Portuguese73 Jew had escaped — had vanished from his native heather when they went to get him. They had identified him as a German professor of Celtic languages, who had held a chair in a Welsh college — a dangerous fellow, for he was an upright, high-minded, raging fanatic74. Against Gresson they had no evidence at all, but he was kept under strict observation. When I asked about his crossing to France, Macgillivray replied that that was part of their scheme. I inquired if the visit had given them any clues, but I never got an answer, for the line had to be cleared at that moment for the War Office. I hunted up the man who had charge of these Labour visits, and made friends with him. Gresson, he said, had been a quiet, well-mannered, and most appreciative75 guest. He had wept tears on Vimy Ridge76, and — strictly against orders — had made a speech to some troops he met on the Arras road about how British Labour was remembering the Army in its prayers and sweating blood to make guns. On the last day he had had a misadventure, for he got very sick on the road — some kidney trouble that couldn’t stand the jolting77 of the car — and had to be left at a village and picked up by the party on its way back. They found him better, but still shaky. I cross-examined the particular officer in charge about that halt, and learned that Gresson had been left alone in a peasant’s cottage, for he said he only needed to lie down. The place was the hamlet of Eaucourt Sainte–Anne.
For several weeks that name stuck in my head. It had a pleasant, quaint78 sound, and I wondered how Gresson had spent his hours there. I hunted it up on the map, and promised myself to have a look at it the next time we came out to rest. And then I forgot about it till I heard the name mentioned again.
On 23rd October I had the bad luck, during a tour of my first-line trenches, to stop a small shell-fragment with my head. It was a close, misty79 day and I had taken off my tin hat to wipe my brow when the thing happened. I got a long, shallow scalp wound which meant nothing but bled a lot, and, as we were not in for any big move, the M.O. sent me back to a clearing station to have it seen to. I was three days in the place and, being perfectly well, had leisure to look about me and reflect, so that I recall that time as a queer, restful interlude in the infernal racket of war. I remember yet how on my last night there a gale80 made the lamps swing and flicker81, and turned the grey-green canvas walls into a mass of mottled shadows. The floor canvas was muddy from the tramping of many feet bringing in the constant dribble82 of casualties from the line. In my tent there was no one very bad at the time, except a boy with his shoulder half-blown off by a whizz-bang, who lay in a drugged sleep at the far end. The majority were influenza83, bronchitis, and trench-fever — waiting to be moved to the base, or convalescent and about to return to their units.
A small group of us dined off tinned chicken, stewed84 fruit, and radon cheese round the smoky stove, where two screens manufactured from packing cases gave some protection against the draughts85 which swept like young tornadoes86 down the tent. One man had been reading a book called the Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, and the talk turned on the unexplainable things that happen to everybody once or twice in a lifetime. I contributed a yarn87 about the men who went to look for Kruger’s treasure in the bushveld and got scared by a green wildebeeste. It is a good yarn and I’ll write it down some day. A tall Highlander88, who kept his slippered90 feet on the top of the stove, and whose costume consisted of a kilt, a British warm, a grey hospital dressing-gown, and four pairs of socks, told the story of the Camerons at First Ypres, and of the Lowland subaltern who knew no Gaelic and suddenly found himself encouraging his men with some ancient Highland89 rigmarole. The poor chap had a racking bronchial cough, which suggested that his country might well use him on some warmer battle-ground than Flanders. He seemed a bit of a scholar and explained the Cameron business in a lot of long words.
I remember how the talk meandered91 on as talk does when men are idle and thinking about the next day. I didn’t pay much attention, for I was reflecting on a change I meant to make in one of my battalion commands, when a fresh voice broke in. It belonged to a Canadian captain from Winnipeg, a very silent fellow who smoked shag tobacco.
‘There’s a lot of ghosts in this darned country,’ he said.
Then he started to tell about what happened to him when his division was last back in rest billets. He had a staff job and put up with the divisional command at an old French chateau92. They had only a little bit of the house; the rest was shut up, but the passages were so tortuous93 that it was difficult to keep from wandering into the unoccupied part. One night, he said, he woke with a mighty94 thirst, and, since he wasn’t going to get cholera95 by drinking the local water in his bedroom, he started out for the room they messed in to try to pick up a whisky-and-soda. He couldn’t find it, though he knew the road like his own name. He admitted he might have taken a wrong turning, but he didn’t think so. Anyway he landed in a passage which he had never seen before, and, since he had no candle, he tried to retrace96 his steps. Again he went wrong, and groped on till he saw a faint light which he thought must be the room of the G.S.O., a good fellow and a friend of his. So he barged in, and found a big, dim salon97 with two figures in it and a lamp burning between them, and a queer, unpleasant smell about. He took a step forward, and then he saw that the figures had no faces. That fairly loosened his joints98 with fear, and he gave a cry. One of the two ran towards him, the lamp went out, and the sickly scent caught suddenly at his throat. After that he knew nothing till he awoke in his own bed next morning with a splitting headache. He said he got the General’s permission and went over all the unoccupied part of the house, but he couldn’t find the room. Dust lay thick on everything, and there was no sign of recent human presence.
I give the story as he told it in his drawling voice. ‘I reckon that was the genuine article in ghosts. You don’t believe me and conclude I was drunk? I wasn’t. There isn’t any drink concocted99 yet that could lay me out like that. I just struck a crack in the old universe and pushed my head outside. It may happen to you boys any day.’
The Highlander began to argue with him, and I lost interest in the talk. But one phrase brought me to attention. ‘I’ll give you the name of the darned place, and next time you’re around you can do a bit of prospecting100 for yourself. It’s called the Chateau of Eaucourt Sainte–Anne, about seven kilometres from Douvecourt. If I was purchasing real estate in this country I guess I’d give that location a miss.’
After that I had a grim month, what with the finish of Third Ypres and the hustles101 to Cambrai. By the middle of December we had shaken down a bit, but the line my division held was not of our choosing, and we had to keep a wary102 eye on the Boche doings. It was a weary job, and I had no time to think of anything but the military kind of intelligence — fixing the units against us from prisoners’ stories, organizing small raids, and keeping the Royal Flying Corps103 busy. I was keen about the last, and I made several trips myself over the lines with Archie Roylance, who had got his heart’s desire and by good luck belonged to the squadron just behind me. I said as little as possible about this, for G.H.Q. did not encourage divisional generals to practise such methods, though there was one famous army commander who made a hobby of them. It was on one of these trips that an incident occurred which brought my spell of waiting on the bigger game to an end.
One dull December day, just after luncheon104, Archie and I set out to reconnoitre. You know the way that fogs in Picardy seem suddenly to reek105 out of the ground and envelop106 the slopes like a shawl. That was our luck this time. We had crossed the lines, flying very high, and received the usual salute28 of Hun Archies. After a mile or two the ground seemed to climb up to us, though we hadn’t descended107, and presently we were in the heart of a cold, clinging mist. We dived for several thousand feet, but the confounded thing grew thicker and no sort of landmark108 could be found anywhere. I thought if we went on at this rate we should hit a tree or a church steeple and be easy fruit for the enemy.
The same thought must have been in Archie’s mind, for he climbed again. We got into a mortally cold zone, but the air was no clearer. Thereupon he decided109 to head for home, and passed me word to work out a compass course on the map. That was easier said than done, but I had a rough notion of the rate we had travelled since we had crossed the lines and I knew our original direction, so I did the best I could. On we went for a bit, and then I began to get doubtful. So did Archie. We dropped low down, but we could hear none of the row that’s always going on for a mile on each side of the lines. The world was very eerie110 and deadly still, so still that Archie and I could talk through the speaking-tube.
‘We’ve mislaid this blamed battle,‘he shouted.
‘I think your rotten old compass has soured on us,’ I replied.
We decided that it wouldn’t do to change direction, so we held on the same course. I was getting as nervous as a kitten, chiefly owing to the silence. It’s not what you expect in the middle of a battle-field . . . I looked at the compass carefully and saw that it was really crocked. Archie must have damaged it on a former flight and forgotten to have it changed.
He had a very scared face when I pointed111 this out.
‘Great God!’ he croaked112 — for he had a fearsome cold —‘we’re either about Calais or near Paris or miles the wrong side of the Boche line. What the devil are we to do?’
And then to put the lid on it his engine went wrong. It was the same performance as on the Yorkshire moors113, and seemed to be a speciality of the Shark–Gladas type. But this time the end came quick. We dived steeply, and I could see by Archie’s grip on the stick that he was going to have his work cut out to save our necks. Save them he did, but not by much for we jolted114 down on the edge of a ploughed field with a series of bumps that shook the teeth in my head. It was the same dense115, dripping fog, and we crawled out of the old bus and bolted for cover like two ferreted rabbits.
Our refuge was the lee of a small copse.
‘It’s my opinion,’ said Archie solemnly, ‘that we’re somewhere about La Cateau. Tim Wilbraham got left there in the Retreat, and it took him nine months to make the Dutch frontier. It’s a giddy prospect11, sir.’
I sallied out to reconnoitre. At the other side of the wood was a highway, and the fog so blanketed sound that I could not hear a man on it till I saw his face. The first one I saw made me lie flat in the covert116 . . . For he was a German soldier, field-grey, forage117 cap, red band and all, and he had a pick on his shoulder.
A second’s reflection showed me that this was not final proof. He might be one of our prisoners. But it was no place to take chances. I went back to Archie, and the pair of us crossed the ploughed field and struck the road farther on. There we saw a farmer’s cart with a woman and child in it. They looked French, but melancholy118, just what you would expect from the inhabitants of a countryside in enemy occupation.
Then we came to the park wall of a great house, and saw dimly the outlines of a cottage. Here sooner or later we would get proof of our whereabouts, so we lay and shivered among the poplars of the roadside. No one seemed abroad that afternoon. For a quarter of an hour it was as quiet as the grave. Then came a sound of whistling, and muffled119 steps.
‘That’s an Englishman,’ said Archie joyfully120. ‘No Boche could make such a beastly noise.’
He was right. The form of an Army Service Corps private emerged from the mist, his cap on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets, and his walk the walk of a free man. I never saw a welcomer sight than that jam-merchant.
We stood up and greeted him. ‘What’s this place?’ I shouted.
He raised a grubby hand to his forelock. ”Ockott Saint Anny, sir,’ he said. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but you ain’t whurt, sir?’
Ten minutes later I was having tea in the mess of an M.T. workshop while Archie had gone to the nearest Signals to telephone for a car and give instructions about his precious bus. It was almost dark, but I gulped121 my tea and hastened out into the thick dusk. For I wanted to have a look at the Chateau.
I found a big entrance with high stone pillars, but the iron gates were locked and looked as if they had not been opened in the memory of man. Knowing the way of such places, I hunted for the side entrance and found a muddy road which led to the back of the house. The front was evidently towards a kind of park; at the back was a nest of outbuildings and a section of moat which looked very deep and black in the winter twilight. This was crossed by a stone bridge with a door at the end of it.
Clearly the Chateau was not being used for billets. There was no sign of the British soldier; there was no sign of anything human. I crept through the fog as noiselessly as if I trod on velvet122, and I hadn’t even the company of my own footsteps. I remembered the Canadian’s ghost story, and concluded I would be imagining the same sort of thing if I lived in such a place.
The door was bolted and padlocked. I turned along the side of the moat, hoping to reach the house front, which was probably modern and boasted a civilized123 entrance. There must be somebody in the place, for one chimney was smoking. Presently the moat petered out, and gave place to a cobbled causeway, but a wall, running at right angles with the house, blocked my way. I had half a mind to go back and hammer at the door, but I reflected that major-generals don’t pay visits to deserted124 chateaux at night without a reasonable errand. I should look a fool in the eyes of some old concierge125. The daylight was almost gone, and I didn’t wish to go groping about the house with a candle.
But I wanted to see what was beyond the wall — one of those whims126 that beset127 the soberest men. I rolled a dissolute water-butt to the foot of it, and gingerly balanced myself on its rotten staves. This gave me a grip on the flat brick top, and I pulled myself up.
I looked down on a little courtyard with another wall beyond it, which shut off any view of the park. On the right was the Chateau, on the left more outbuildings; the whole place was not more than twenty yards each way. I was just about to retire by the road I had come, for in spite of my fur coat it was uncommon128 chilly129 on that perch130, when I heard a key turn in the door in the Chateau wall beneath me.
A lantern made a blur131 of light in the misty darkness. I saw that the bearer was a woman, an oldish woman, round-shouldered like most French peasants. In one hand she carried a leather bag, and she moved so silently that she must have worn rubber boots. The light was held level with her head and illumined her face. It was the evillest thing I have ever beheld132, for a horrible scar had puckered133 the skin of the forehead and drawn134 up the eyebrows135 so that it looked like some diabolical136 Chinese mask.
Slowly she padded across the yard, carrying the bag as gingerly as if it had been an infant. She stopped at the door of one of the outhouses and set down the lantern and her burden on the ground. From her apron137 she drew something which looked like a gas-mask, and put it over her head. She also put on a pair of long gauntlets. Then she unlocked the door, picked up the lantern and went in. I heard the key turn behind her.
Crouching138 on that wall, I felt a very ugly tremor139 run down my spine140. I had a glimpse of what the Canadian’s ghost might have been. That hag, hooded141 like some venomous snake, was too much for my stomach. I dropped off the wall and ran — yes, ran till I reached the highroad and saw the cheery headlights of a transport wagon142, and heard the honest speech of the British soldier. That restored me to my senses, and made me feel every kind of a fool.
As I drove back to the line with Archie, I was black ashamed of my funk. I told myself that I had seen only an old countrywoman going to feed her hens. I convinced my reason, but I did not convince the whole of me. An insensate dread143 of the place hung around me, and I could only retrieve144 my self-respect by resolving to return and explore every nook of it.
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polygon
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| n.多边形；多角形 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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morasses
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| n.缠作一团( morass的名词复数 )；困境；沼泽；陷阱 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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6
conundrum
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| n.谜语；难题 | |
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7
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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8
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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9
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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10
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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11
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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12
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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13
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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14
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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15
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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16
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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17
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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18
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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19
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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20
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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21
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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22
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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23
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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24
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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25
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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26
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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27
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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28
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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29
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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30
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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31
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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32
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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33
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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34
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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35
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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37
cyclones
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| n.气旋( cyclone的名词复数 )；旋风；飓风；暴风 | |
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38
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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39
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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40
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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41
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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42
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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43
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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44
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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45
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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46
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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47
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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48
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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49
acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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50
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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51
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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52
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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53
malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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54
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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55
convalesce
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| v.康复，复原 | |
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56
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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58
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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59
spoof
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| n.诳骗，愚弄，戏弄 | |
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60
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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61
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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62
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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63
bellicose
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| adj.好战的；好争吵的 | |
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64
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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65
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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66
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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67
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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68
affiliations
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| n.联系( affiliation的名词复数 )；附属机构；亲和性；接纳 | |
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69
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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70
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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71
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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72
interned
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| v.拘留，关押( intern的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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74
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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75
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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76
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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77
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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78
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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79
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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80
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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81
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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82
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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83
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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84
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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85
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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86
tornadoes
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| n.龙卷风，旋风( tornado的名词复数 ) | |
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87
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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88
highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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89
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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90
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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91
meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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93
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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94
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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95
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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96
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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97
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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98
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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99
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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100
prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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101
hustles
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| 忙碌，奔忙( hustle的名词复数 ) | |
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102
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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103
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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104
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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105
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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106
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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107
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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108
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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109
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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110
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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111
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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112
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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113
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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116
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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117
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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118
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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119
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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120
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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121
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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122
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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123
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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124
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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125
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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126
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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127
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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128
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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129
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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130
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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131
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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132
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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133
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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135
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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136
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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137
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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138
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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139
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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140
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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141
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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142
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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143
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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144
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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