It was still morning when it was reported by one of our look-out men, who
had been scanning the boche lines with a pair of field glasses (only his
head showing above the top of the trench made for observation purposes),
that the Germans were walking about the tops of their trenches in a
careless fashion.
Naturally some of the last batch of men to join us wanted to have a pop at
them, but our officers said no--to let sleeping dogs lie. Most of us
peeped over and saw them. Doing so, my eye caught a large number that had
concentrated behind a mound to our right front--directly in advance of the
English troops that held a section of trenches on our right flank. I
should judge that there were about a hundred of the enemy,--some holding
up white handkerchiefs in the lead, and a mass of them a little distance
behind. My heart was in my throat, and I wondered whether the K. R. R.'s
were aware of their presence. I had heard stories of Germans with flags of
truce. But so, evidently, had the commanders of the Rifles, for soon there
was enacted before me a tragedy which I shall never forget.
About one hundred of the Rifles went forward to bring in this batch of
Germans who were advancing apparently to surrender. They advanced very
slowly and cautiously. Just when they were within short range, the Germans
in front, bearing white flags but no arms, threw themselves onto the
ground, machine guns began firing over their heads and those with rifles
began firing point blank into the ranks of the British.
The K. R. R.'s were ready for them. They opened up like a fan, their
machine guns and rifles began crashing and the Huns were thrown into
confusion. They dropped like clay pipes in a shooting gallery. The crews
of the boche machine guns were picked off by the riflemen, and the K. R.
R.'s machine guns kept on pouring lead into the mass. It was dreadful! I
saw piles of Huns, dead and wounded, the latter waving like a shock of
hay with some one underneath it trying to get out. Their officers, in the
rear, shot down man after man who tried to run. They drove them forward
like bullocks to the slaughter, for many of the Germans were too confused
to shoot and scores had thrown away their rifles. Suddenly the K. R. R.'s
machine guns became silent. For a few seconds the rifle fire became faster
and more furious. Then it stopped. Steel bayonets glinted as the K. R.
R.'s charged. There was no mercy shown. There were no prisoners taken. Of
the five thousand Germans, who had gone out to do murder in cold blood, I
do not believe five hundred got away. They were practically annihilated.
The bayonets finished the work that the machine guns and rifles had
started. What would you have? Men would not spare a nest of venomous
snakes. It was a just retribution, but my stomach turned at it. None who
had not seen it could even picture the sight.
For the next few days we had it "cushy," except for boche shrapnel
showering our trenches at intervals, daily.
The cold, however, had increased enough to cause much discomfort. It was
always cold, and especially so when there was a fierce wind and the rain
drenched us. It was the common thing for the men to be up to their knees
in water and slush.
We had been almost two weeks in this position when we noticed queer
happenings in a farm house a few hundred yards behind our lines. The
watchfulness of our officers revealed the significance of some apparently
trifling things.
In the daytime, the shade on a window facing the German line would
frequently be moved. Sometimes it would be drawn the full length of the
window; then, if the German artillery had been pounding away at our right
flank, immediately it would switch in the direction of our batteries.
Sometimes the shade would be only half way down. More than once I saw a
woman at this same window; and sometimes she would be leading a cow about
some distance behind our lines. At night a light would be seen now and
again moving past the window.
Agents of the British Intelligence Department, summoned to the front by
our officers, discovered that a complete system of signalling was carried
on between the people in the isolated farm house and the Germans. Three
men and a woman were marched out of the house and taken away. After that,
our concealed batteries, in new positions, hadn't a single casualty for
days, whereas, previously, they had been almost constantly under heavy and
accurate fire!
During the few days following the "white flag" affair, when the boches'
shelling was not quite so steady, we passed our time playing cards.
Occasionally one of the fellows, who had split a piece of wood at one end,
would insert a card in it and hold it over the parapet. Nine times out of
ten a German sniper--there were many of them in the vicinity--would put a
hole in it with a bullet.
These snipers caused us a great deal of trouble, particularly when we
wanted water, which was procurable only at a little brook on our left
flank. To get it was such a risky proposition that there were no "detail
parties" formed in the daytime, and any one who went in quest of it, did
so at his own risk. Many a one who did so venture paid for his daring
with his life. The snipers were always busy, even at night, and seemed to
have a line on this spot.
A few of the fellows, rather than risk going to the brook, filled their
water bottles from a duck pond--full of a dirty, green, slimy
liquid--situated behind our line. The result was sickness to most of those
that drank it and nearly all had to be sent to hospital.
Late one afternoon our section (thirteen men) was all together. Four of us
were playing cards in an effort at distraction, for we were nearly insane
from the lack of drinking water. For two days we had had to eat our bully
beef and biscuits dry. We made it up that we should play a game of "phat"
(a common card game among the Tommies), and that the one with the lowest
count would have to take the section's water bottles and fill them at the
brook. This--to use a Yankee expression--was a "cinch" for me, or at least
I thought so at the beginning of the game; and so did the others, who,
because of my record as a winner at the game were of the opinion that I
couldn't lose.
However, toward the middle of the game I became nervous. So far I had
taken only two tricks. Things got worse as the playing progressed, and it
wound up with me the loser.
Without a word, they collected the thirteen bottles and hung them on my
left shoulder like decorations on a Christmas tree.
Silently I made off. I reached the brook without mishap.
I had almost half of the bottles filled when--zip--a bullet struck very
close to me. I tumbled into the water, pulling the bottles with me, and,
in a lying position, continued filling them. This was not what one might
call a comfortable or a convenient position in which to fill water
bottles. They filled very slowly indeed.
As soon as they were full, I placed them on my shoulders; rose, dripping,
from the water; and made for our line. I had not gone more than twenty
paces when a bullet struck close at my heels. I jumped and looked upward,
hoping to fool the sniper into thinking he was firing too high, causing
him to set his sight for a shorter range. The next shot fell shorter
still. I looked up again and hastened my pace. A third shot visibly
struck a rock and enabled the sniper to correct his range.
Almost immediately after came another bullet, which I knew had got
something about me. Instantly I flopped down and lay still. There was more
scattered firing from the German lines and I was trembling with "nerves."
At last, I could not stand it longer. I was afraid the sniper would fire
at me again--not an uncommon practice with the boche sniper, who, when he
drops his man, usually sends over a make-sure shot. So I sprang to my feet
and rushed for the trenches, arriving there in safety.
When I got into our section I found my pals sitting around and looking
very gloomy. Upon seeing me they greeted me with:
"Ye've been a h---- o' a time awa'. We were juist beginnin' tae think we'd
lost our watter bottles."
When I unloaded my cargo I found that two of the bottles had been pierced
by a bullet. Each man of the section made a thirsty effort to lay hands on
his own bottle. I was left with the two damaged ones besides my own. Then
they told me how a shell had exploded and killed two of the card
players--the owners of the damaged bottles. The water that was left in
these was distributed among the others.
Patrol work, mostly at night, continued to be my chief duty. On one
occasion I lost my bearings, and presently found myself almost upon one of
the boche listening posts.
"So long as I have come thus far, I will edge in and take a chance," I
said to myself.
I knew it would be almost as dangerous to go back as to go forward, for at
any moment a man might crane his neck above the parapet, see me moving,
and fire. Then there was the momentary chance that a star bomb would light
the heavens and all the earth between the lines, in which case a thousand
rifles would begin sputtering at everything that moved or seemed to be
alive. Each second I expected it to come. My nerves felt as if they were
drawn taut--taut as the barbed wire which the boches string so tight that
if it is cut in the night it will twang like the string of a violin. But
the quick shot in the night did not come, and I wriggled forward through
the wire.
I was almost at the edge of the parapet of the listening post. I heard
voices whispering in German. Some one was scrambling up over the parapet.
How was I to get away? I could not, so I lay on my belly and buried my
face in the earth--the earth which should be wholesome and life giving,
but which stunk with unspeakable things.
Three heads appeared above the parapet. Shoulders followed, and cautiously
a patrol of three men wriggled out from the listening post and then
separated. One of them, in getting out, slipped, and I could hear him
"strafing" under his breath, as he vanished into the night. Another head
thrust itself above the parapet. I was sure a pair of eyes were staring at
me, though I could not see them in the dark.
Once more I lay as if dead. "What's the difference?" I thought; in a few
moments, probably, I would be, and then I should not mind the sight or the
odour of what was around me.
The man in the listening post reached down for something at his feet. I
was sure that he was going to hurl a grenade in my direction. Something
came hurtling through the air. I sunk my teeth into my lip to keep from
crying out, and wondered how the explosion would feel--whether there was
any anguish in being torn to bits instantaneously. The dark object plumped
onto the ground at my side and bumped against my ribs. How long it took
for it to explode! Then I knew it was only a stone. I continued to lie as
still as one dead.
Another stone struck my shoulders. The sentry did not wish to rouse the
whole line and start a wastage of ammunition by causing a thousand rounds
or so to be fired uselessly into the night, as would probably be the case
should he discharge his rifle or throw a grenade. He crawled up over the
parapet and wriggled toward me. I tried to prepare myself to spring up
when the time came, but I dared not so much as move a foot to get a better
grip on the ground. He himself did not dare to rise. He knew that his
silhouette would draw fire from the trenches. It would be like a battle
between snakes, both of us on the ground there, fighting each other on our
bellies.
I saw the dull gleam of his bayonet. Still I did not dare to let him know
I was alive. He was only inches from me. I could hear his deep breathing.
He was not sure whether or not I was a corpse, but he was going to take no
chances. He lunged with the steel. I managed to jam the butt of my rifle
against his head. It disconcerted him, but there was not enough force
behind the blow, struck from my awkward position, to stun him. He rolled
upon me. I felt for his throat. He was a big, greasy boche and my fingers
could scarcely encircle his neck, but I squeezed and squeezed, for my life
depended upon my eight fingers and my two thumbs. If I did not throttle
him, he would kill me.
He was getting weaker. I felt his muscles relax. I could see his eyes. I
do not think I shall ever forget them. They bulged from their sockets and
it seemed that they would pop from his head and strike me in the face. It
sickened me, but it was his life or mine. He was clawing frantically but
weakly. Now he was still. It was brutal, but war is brutal.
After emptying his pockets I crawled to the edge of the dugout listening
post. Inside were three men, two lying in the bottom of the hole, the
third sitting with his back against the wall of the excavation. The boche
I had just left probably had disobeyed orders in crawling out without
awakening one of them. The error cost him his life and saved mine.
For a second as I peered over the edge of the hole I had thoughts of a
daring deed, but it was better to get back to our lines with the contents
of the first man's pockets, which no doubt afforded information for our
staff, and so I returned--battered and torn and exhausted.
After this, in recognition of my work as a scout, I was offered the rank
of a non-commissioned officer, but I did not wish it. They were picking
off the non-coms too fast to suit me, and there was danger enough in the
work I was doing.