Free A Fox Under My Cloak by Henry Williamson

there before him, a hundred yards away, was the barricade. He had to walk now, his legs were weak, but he managed to wheel the bike forward, trying not to have a strained expression on his face He was trembling, he looked straight ahead, deliberately avoiding a glance at the German trench. The grasses on the road looked very fresh and green, the metalling clean, washed by rains, untrodden. Eyes on the road before him, he pushed on towards the last sandbag barricade beside a roadside cottage.
    So near and yet so far. Fear rose out of the ground, all about him, as though of the exhalations of the spirits of the hatless British dead lying on the ground.
    Perhaps they had been killed in the attack of 19 December, one of many made all along the line in order to hold down the German divisions which otherwise would have been sent to Russia. Living German faces were looking at him, as he could see from his retinae as he moved through a thousand dragging threads of fear, his face feeling transparent, his glance upon the ground. Slowly the big barricade of the German front trench became larger in its fixedness across the lane, beside a white estaminet stabbed all over with bullet marks in its plaster. A thin ragged hedge, clipped and cut by bullets, stood on the other side of the lane. How could he get past that solid-looking barricade ? It was frizzed with coils of wire above and around it. He must leave the bike there, and try and find a gap. Ah, there was a way between the sandbag’d door of the estaminet and the barricade. Now he was walking on an area, unrecognised as a field, torn up by circular shell-holes in places; and fifty yards away stood a group of mixed and mud-stained soldiers in khaki greatcoats, goat-skins, and feld-grau jackets. He was safe; he was in No Man’s Land.
    “Can you tell me the name of this place, please?”
    “St. Yves. ’Oo are yer?”
    “London Highlanders. Who are you?”
    “Warwicks.”
    “I’m looking for the London Rifles.”
    Thumbs jerked—“Down there.”
    Through the fraternising soldiers, on the frozen level field, he walked towards some cottages seen in the near distance. He asked again.
    “East Lancs, mate.”
    He went on, past Somersets, and Hampshires. He saw a peasant in the usual black suit being led away to behind the British lines. He had come up to look at his property—the white estaminet stabbed all over with bullets.
    “I say, can you tell me where the London Rifles——?”
    “We are the London Rifles!”
    “Oh, good!”
    “I say—who are you?”
    “London Highlanders.”
    “London Highlanders? Are they here?”
    “No, up north—near White Sheet.”
    “Have you just come down from there?”
    More men of the Rifles were now gathering round him.
    “Didn’t you come from behind the German lines?”
    “Yes. I came along the Messines crest, on a bike.”
    “A bike? From behind the German lines?”
    “Where did you leave it?”
    “Leaning against their barricade over there.”
    “Good God!”
    “Were you with the London Highlanders at the battle of Messines?”
    Questions followed in quick succession. He looked from one face to another.
    “Give him a chance to speak, you fellows,” said someone, who thereupon in the silence began to ask his own questions. “You did say you were with the original battalion at Messines?”
    “Yes.”
    The questioner looked at him intently. “Mean to say you’ve been a prisoner ever since the bayonet charge?”
    “Good lord, no! I wasn’t taken prisoner.”
    “Then how did you come to be wandering free behind the German lines?”
    “I just went there for a bike ride.”
    “What, right behind their lines?”
    “Yes. Some of our fellows went behind them to have a football match, so I thought I’d have a look round. Then I came on here, on the off-chance of finding one of your chaps, called Maddison.”
    “Maddison? What company?”
    “I don’t exactly know.”
    “Maddison? Anyone know Maddison? Sure he’s with