“PETIT POST”
Out where the night seems the blackest, where one is unable to see
his hands before his face, and where, in many instances, due to close
proximity of the enemy trenches, one is compelled to be as quiet as a
mouse, there is located in a shell-hole or the like is the _Petit
Post_ (or listening post), which is employed by all armies engaged
in carrying on modern trench warfare.
Out in front of even your own barb wire, with no form of protection
from the enemy, two men must be constantly on watch, in order to send
up signals in the event that Fritz decides to come over with his
nippers for the purpose of slashing a passage in the wire that his
men may come through quickly in order to prevent the machine guns from
collecting too much toll. It is necessary for the men at the post to
lie flat and listen for the nip of the wire clippers. If this comes, it
is their duty to signal the front-line trench, and, with star shells,
the machine-gunners can discern the enemy and put the finishing touches
on the wire-clipping party.
The end generally comes before they even get started. As soon as these
men know that the enemy are over, in addition to sending up their
signals, they throw out six or eight hand grenades, and then run back
to their trenches as best they can and assist in the defense in the
case of an attack. But the thing to imagine is lying out there in
the rain and mud with absolutely no protection, the wind cutting to
the marrow and moaning mournfully as it sweeps over “No Man’s Land,”
whistling through the barb-wire entanglements. The night seems just
that much blacker after the star shell dies out, for such is the
blinding effect on the eyes.
There have been many instances where enemy patrols have stumbled right
into these little listening posts while they are on patrol duty in “No
Man’s Land,” and other instances have been known where one patrol would
be walking side by side with an enemy patrol until someone would happen
to discover the fact and then there was always a fight. A few exchanges
of shots, a few thuds from the swinging of butt ends of guns and all
was over in a few moments.
Picture yourself on such duty where even a whisper will bring you
a present in the form of a hand grenade, and when there are no
wire-cutting operations on, or enemy patrols to bother you, it rains,
and you wallow in mud like an animal with your knees knocking together,
and your clothing so wet that it sticks to your body. But this is very
important work and must be performed. Two lives out there may mean the
saving of hundreds in the trenches.
All such operations as cutting the wire and patrol duty are carried
on under the cover of darkness, with only the intermittent star shell,
which is sent up like a rocket to impede the work. When these are in
the sky it is necessary for everyone between the trenches to lie flat
on the ground because a man standing with this light on him would be a
mark for the enemy sniper.
I have known of instances where men on patrol duty have been shot early
in the morning while inspecting the wire, and, falling over, hung there
entangled in utter helplessness. The light coming on prevented their
comrades from rescuing them and they lay there for days at a time
with the German machine guns trained on them. Once in a life time on
_Petit post_ is enough—an abundant sufficiency.