The Vision of the Blind.

Observer, Volume XXXVI, Issue 40, 10 June 1916, Page 15

The Vision of the Blind.

THE "Toughs" picked him up in the last inhabited village behind the trenches. He was standing by the houses facing the road along which they were passing. As the front files came by he called out, first in French and then in excellent University English: "Bon chance—good luck, Toughs !" They called back in amiable good temper, chaffing him broadly and humanly, noting nothing strange in him, until blank file in the first platoon cried: "Lummy! 'Ow does 'c know? 'E's blind." The tall Frenchman waved bis band. A pleasant but melancholy smile came to his lips. It seemed he had beard blank file's squealing voice even amid the trampling. "The Downsman's step," be said. "The Downsman's step. No mistaking that." Puzzling. Those who hoard wondered what be was meaning. They swung on, talking about him as they dipped and heaved forward. But the Captain had beard and understood, and, as the Sub was putting the universal query, he answered: "He bears us. Hears us y'know. That's how he knows. He recognises the Downsman stride." The Toughs, of course, are nearly all Downsmen. Born amid the grand and humpy nakedness of Sussex and Surrey, they bad lived so familiarly amid the hills that they had forgotten their existence and significance. The tall Frenchman's words conveyed nothing. But the Sub saw, even as the Captain had seen. "Phew!" he jerked. "That's pretty acute, eh ? Ears like gramophone sound boxes, eh?" "He's blind. That quickens a man," said the Captain. "Concentrates all one's perceptions into one faculty. I'm going to talk to him." Later, both men came along to the meadow where the Toughs had outspanned for grub. They were both walking easily, the Frenchman in no difficulties because of the other's pace. He seemed to sense obstacles—either by their movements when they were animate, or by the echo of his footfall when they were inanimate—with a certainty so remarkable that it seemed miraculous. And as he walked he talked. That was part of the miracle. His hearing had become go subtle that it was almost intuitive, as the action of the eyes is intuitive and can carry on its functions while the brain is concentrated on, say, talking. The "Old Man," standing amid the grouped officers, saw the pair coming. He frowned. "Who the deuce is Briant bringing along? I don't like civilian strangers coming into mess at these times. Briant ought to know that." "He's blind, Sir," said the Sub. "He's rather wonderful, you'll find." "Oh, you know him too," said the Colonel. By that time the pair had arrived. The Captain introduced the Frenchman with pleasant gravity—even, it seemed', a little guarded in the notes of his voice. The man had been surprising him. In their talk, he had answered the inflections of the voice more often than the words said. "This is Lieutenant Navre, of the French Army of Alsace. He was wounded in the fight near Altkirch on the 10th of August, 1914." The Frenchman, smiled, and his smile was particularly winning. "It was stupid of me to be hit so early," he said, and his tone accomplished that difficult thing—it put them all at ease with a wounded man immediately—"it has rendered me a 'slacker' for so long a time." The Colonel was his good friend at once. It touched him to see a man who was, perhaps, even braver as a civilian than he had been as a soldier. The Lieutenant was talking

W. Douglas Newton, in "The Sketch."

so unconstrainedly to him, so undistractedly indeed, that it was difficult to know that he was blind. And when they disposed themselves on the grass to eat, his movements were so sure that his knowledge of what was going on so certain that they were rather nonplussed. They tried to help him, to find that he was entirely able to look after himself. To them all, the marvel of his hearing quite as much as the marvel of his serene coinage was astonishing. He was rarely at fault. They were indeed more often at fault. It was the Sub, with the ingenuous candour of inordinate youth who voiced their wonderment. The Sub had tried to help, and had found himself left, and left rather clumsily. "Really awf'lly sorry," he said. "You see, I haven't quite grasped yet how clever you are." A bad moment, perhaps, but the Frenchman was quite charming. "Please do not be—upset," he said. "You are really very kind. But I find—l think I am a little unique of my species." He was quite modest —not bragging, but trying to help the Sub out. "You see," he went on, "I was a musician before—before the Germans began to defend themselves over our bolder." All the men were quiet and listening to him now. This, he knew, was the tactful moment for explanation. There was no need for explanation, but the men about him were intrigued by his skill, and courteously eager to hear. He understood. He answered that courtesy with grace, speaking simply, not dwelling on details. "It was good luck to be a musician, I admit. It had trained me already in—how do I say it —in the little sounds, in the minor harmonies. You know, Monsieur, though music has a big, a broad effect, that effect is gained by a number of sounds—in a large orchestra sixty, perhaps, or one hundred small sounds. It is usual to know only the blended effect of all these; but a musician, by his training, by his habit too, is able to separate these tiny sounds from the great effect. Even while he is appreciating the beauty of the total he is hearing each of the violins, each of the viols, the horns, even the unnoted tinkle of the triangle." He smiled at them, eager that they should grasp his meaning. "It is, for instance, the same with the eyes. You look upon a big view, and it is beautiful. But you see every tree, every hedge, every field and house, sometimes every leaf, at the same time quite distinctly. That is the way of my hearing. I have begun to—what you would call specialise in sounds. It is a task quite captivating. It is wonderful. I had a good ear before —but the multitudes of sounds I missed then. I am finding them now, endless and unexpected little sounds in all their microscopic rustlings. And I am understanding all their subtleties, their correlations, their meanings. It is quite wonderful. I had a good ear, I was lucky, and I have had nearly two years' practice." His face was radiant. It was wonderful—only his courage was more wonderful. He had spent nearly two years in darkness listening to tiny and tenuo\is noises. And he was brave and unbowed. He was too splendid to pity. "An example," he said. "There is coming towards us an aeroplane. It is probably five miles away now, and it is about 3500 feet up. It is coming north-north-west. Its line is" over L . Can any of you see it?" They all stared in the direction of L . There was nothing at all to be seen. In the muffled throb of distant battle, in the nearer clatter of the road, a»d a whole regiment

using its tongue, nothing at all could be heard. For two minutes they looked, and they had already turned to chat again when a sharp eye saw her. Then they all saw her hanging like a midge against the clouds. The Senior Major was on his feet at once, to get the men into cover. But the French Lieutenant stopped him. "It is all right," he said. "The engine is a Green. It is one of your own machines." They watched the 'plane swing through the sky and slide over them. As she crossed an officer picked out the tricolour circles through his glasses. Lieutenant Navre had not made a mistake. The Colonel congratulated him. "It is wonderful," he said, "but, will you let me say it, your—your gift should be very useful. Many times, hearing like yours would 'be immensely valuable. Why, 'Ikstoning posts' with men like -" He stopped. Perhaps he had been impertinent. "Like you, I think I could be valuable," answered the Frenchman simply. "And, more than that, I ask for nothing better than to prove this." He paused, and smiled once more. "But Army Regulations—you have them, too, and you know theni. I am a wounded fellow—discharged. That is the final verdict. The gate of—patriotism is shut against "my oars." "Surely, "said the Captain, "they must recognise the value of your hearing?" "So I thought, too. But all my offers have been checked. Army Regulations—that is the fiery sword. I offer myself to my countryFrance. Always the doctors know the clauses rejecting blind men too well for me. Even in your country, England, where my convalescence was spent among the hills (in Sussex—you have guessed, perhaps), they cling to their splendid regulations. I tried them when Frnace had refused me. They admire niv pertinacity, but Clause 000231, Section zz, forbids. It is all heartbreaking. In the end I came back to my own village, the place where you found me. lam in despair, but I can hear the sound of the guns, I can hear how things go, well or ill, if I am not allowed to join in." His face turned towards the Colonel. "And yet I am still convinced with you, Sir, that my hearing would, have some value in the trenches. Things might be discovered by me when eyes cannot see. I am convinced the experiment should be tried." The "Toughs" had experienced the sorrow of several surprise rushes in the dark. It was occurring to the Colonel that any of these might have been forestalled by a hearing so acute as the French Lieutenant's.

* • "I told you this morning that they were being too skilfully 'usual' to be trusted; and I was right," said the French Lieutenant. The Captain could see, even in the curious luminosity of mixed blackness and Verey lights, that there was the curious, eager half-smile on his lips that he wore when he was hearing satisfactorily. "Yes," he said, nodding; "yes, there is a lot of movement among our friends over the way." His head indicated, not the sandbags to which it was pointing the remarks, but the space beyond the listening post, and beyond that—the German trenches less than fifty yards away. "I suppose you yourself hear nothing yet?" "Nothing at all out of the ordinary," said the Captain. "But then —I haven't your ears." He touched the look-out man. "Anything fresh at all, Jones?" he asked. "Nothin' fresh, Sir—'alf a mo', though, Sir. 'Ere's a star shell. . ." The pallid light spread over the sky like a degenerate dawn. Looking up, the Captain could see the curve of the look-out private's head placed cunningly amid the sandbags. He waited, watching' that curve. The light waxed, shone full, and waned. "Nothing fresh, Sir," the man said presently. "Parapets quiet. Little firing away to the right. But quiet

'ere. They've gutter working party out in the wire, I think ; but no good strafing 'em. Our party's out, too, Sir." . ' "That party is cutting the wire, not repairing it," the Frenchman said softly. He was sitting upright, away from the bags of the post, the Burlwrry storm-coat that was to lead the inquisitive to think him a British officer with every right to be there, making him look indeed a British officer. Only the alert angle of his head would tell one that he was blind, though it would tell one that he was hearing keenly also. '.'They are cutting their wire," he repeated ; "but they are working the nippers cunningly. It would be hard for you to hear the twang of the recoiling strands, I think." "I do not hear it at all," said the Captain. And though he knew that he should have heard it in the ordinary way, even against the background of the battle sound, he trusted the Frenchman by now. "That sunods like an attack." "I am as certain as I can be they mean to attack. There are so many sounds—all indicating movement, massing." "Can you gauge it definitely? I mean the line of massing that would give us the point from which they will start." The Frenchman smiled again. "Oh, yes. I think that is quite easy. There are so many sounds— see, I will give them to you as they come to me. It is almost a little symphony—a grim nocturne of battle movement.' He listened. The Captain, looking at him, could not help being thrilled. It was as though he were sitting in the wireless room of a great liner, and, unseen, unguessed, unheard even, the secret filaments of some immense news were stealing into the receiving instrument. It was disconcerting, eerie. He watched Navre's face. Save for the little smile, the face was passionless. , Navre was speaking. "The main disturbance is movement—not so much a sound, but a soft tumult in the air. I can sense it rustling up and down, up and down. It is made up of many rustlings—the creaking of harness, the passage of men against revetments, of men against men. I can hear the shuffling of nailed boots in soft mud ; they are going softly, but the sound is unmistakable. Then there are the many noises of weapons—clicks, you know, of rifles against earth and against metal fastenings. And there is that sound that I have learned in your trenches—we did not have it in the early days of the war—the clicking of bombs. They are piling them in many places, and as men move I hear these clicks move with them. They are carrying quantities of bombs with them." "In baskets—that's it," said the Captain. "That's the way they carry them when they are attacking." "I can hear men walking as though they were carrying heavy parcels. They let those parcels down, quite softly, but I know by their soft sound that those parcels are both heavy and hard. So I know what they are. They are bringing up ammunition, and a great quantity of it. . . . They are forcing the boxes open also—l can hear the wood breaking. The men who have been shuffling come together in uneasy groups, they break away from the groups, return to the parapets. They are serving out ammunition from the boxes. . . . That sound I am hearing now—they are fitting belts to machine guns. Without cartridges, they are testing the smooth running of machine guns. I hear the quick clicking of the firing piece and recoil. You must know where these Maxims are. They are away to my left—not less than 80 yards away." "I know," said the Captain. "There's a patch they've been bagging rather heavily. We thought they were strengthening a thin place. . . . The machine guns will catch us badly on enfilade if they break down our main curve. Please go on, Monsieur Navre."

"Noav the main line of the massing. The men are pouring into the trench in three big chains—the support trenches, of course." ("We knoAV of three," said the Captain.) "I can hear the sounds of these like three rivers, passing back in a thinning perspective of noise. But the noise always comes; from vagueness to strength it continues unceasing, so their massing is big—it goes on and on. The greatest sound of moving men is at the nearest end of these three lines. And the sound deepens—it deepens every minute. It has even the sound of congestion. Movements packed tight, small, hushed voices speaking close up against other tiny, secret voices. Yes, the trenches are full. . . . And of all this depth of noise, there is one part where the depth is deepest. It is—l must be sure—it is to the right centre here. Sixty yards aAvay. ... is there a redoubt there?—the noise echoes and reechoes from the Avails of sandbags." The Captain felt numb, almost, before this unfaltering recital. But he ansAvered quietly, "You are perfectly right. The redoubt is there. I would not have thought they would attack from there; it is a cruel line for them; only—only it is the place where our parapet is Aveakest. Wet soil—Aye haA'e had difficulty in keeping the breastAvorks shored up. A bad line for them—but the easiest Avay to get in once they had got across." "They intend to gain that advantage by surprise—a rush." "Of course. And trust them for knoAving joints in our armour. If it had not been for you " "It is my joy to said the Frenchman; and, quickly, "I Avould pass the Avord to your batteries, Captain. I can hear the heels of the ladders scraping in the mud and against the Avails of bags—ah, and there is their first shell." The first shell of the German bracket screamed through the veils of the night, and burst redly amid the Avire before the British trench. The second followed SAviftly, landing Avell over the parados. Then—then the British batteries began to open. The German shelling began to pile up, but the British gunning came out after it, built up with a sAviftness more burning. The Captain had scrambled back to the trench, and the Forward Observation Officer had sent his precise instructions over the Avire—instructions quite particular about the redoubt and the ever filled supports, and the neAV and secret machine gun placement into the bargain. The first fall of German shells on the sandbags only preceded a smashing British reply by seconds. And the reply Avent on Avith rapidly increasing ferocity until it became obvious that in the matter of both question and reply our men had all the talking. The "Toughs" had a bad time. The German artillery officer knows his business thoroughly, and the manned trenches were cruelly plastered. But, bad though their time Avas, the German trenches must have been infernal. The batteries got their line at once, and shells of all calibres and fashions punched and slashed deep into the congested works. The redoubt with its throng of-close packed troops, must have been charncl. The fat and flowing lines of supports must have been ghastly. . . . they saAV the cartridge stores going sky high at the neAV machine gun position, so they kneAv lioav the Germans felt there. A maze of shelling drenched and shattered the Germans. Their line must have been infernal. The enemy did attempt one rush. A thick, packing thing driven from the redoubt to the weak patch in the

' 'Toughs' " line, even as Navre had foretold. But the place Avas only weak under surprise—Avith the troops alert it was lethal. The first line melted, the second charged and melted, the third never really got across the German parapets. A rush or tAvo Avas tried from other points. But the British were too awake. The rushes ended in annihilation. But all these rushes told of a big attack planned—a big attack that had been shattered, by luck and a pair of exquisite ears. It was the first and last attack those ears Avould discover, alas! Navre Avas brought in from the front before the attack was half through. This time there Avas no half mercy about his Avound. The Captain nearly cried Avhen he saAV

the Frenchman. Pity, and mora than pity, was in him. He Avas cursing himself for not bringing him in from the "post." But Navre only smiled. "Please do not be —upset," he said in liis charming Avay. "Remember, it has been a joy to serve—if only once. . . . And—and Aye have— let me say, my ears have beaten them. I can hear—by the sound they are already beaten. . ." Before he could knoAV the truth of that in fact he Avas dead.