Our regiment was now shifted from the position where the Germans had tried
to drown us out to another section near a place which we afterwards
christened "The Glory Hole." The German lines and ours were very near to
each other here. On the night of our arrival we could hear the Huns
talking, and after we had settled ourselves in our trenches, we could hear
them now and again whistling "Highland Laddie." It was evident that they
knew who we were, as that is the tune to which we "march past."
I was now initiated into the use of the hand grenades. The kind we got
were later termed the "hair-brush." Now and again, the Germans would take
a mad turn and lob a few of their grenades over at us, and in turn, we
returned the compliment. This form of fighting was then in its infancy,
and we nearly all had our own ways of doing it. I used to tie two or three
of the bomb handles together with a rope; get hold of the end of it,
which was knotted; and, in the same way as an American athlete throws the
hammer, I would swing the bombs over my head and let go in the direction
of Fritz. In this way I could accomplish a few yards more than anyone who
threw in the ordinary way. Sandbags were piled about three feet high on
top of the parapet with loopholes through which we fired our rifles. When
I wanted to throw the grenades in the fashion I have just described, I
would go to the more level ground at the back, throw them, and jump back
into the trench where I always had ample room, as the others, with varying
criticisms of my enterprise, gladly cleared the way before I started
operations. They fully expected me at some time to make a mistake and land
the grenades among them instead of in the boches' trench.
As we did not have one common system of throwing these grenades, a few of
the non-coms and men were selected to practise--a little way behind the
lines--the proper method. Our Acting-Colonel, J. T. C. Murray, and three
men were killed when a lance-corporal, in swinging a grenade,
accidentally struck the ground with it, causing it to explode.
At times we were treated to some lyddite shells by the boches (at least we
believed them to be lyddite, though I have since learned that they were
gas shells). I was never caught in the fumes myself, but I saw many men
who had been. This particular gas simply snuffed the life out of the men
without their even knowing what had happened. As they lost consciousness,
they turned a yellow-brown colour, and never made any attempt to
stir--just went to sleep and did not awaken--while those who got just a
slight touch of it, would stagger about, as if deeply intoxicated.
Volunteers were asked, one day, to go to a V-shaped sector where the
British and the German lines were so close that grenades could be easily
thrown from one trench to another--and they were! Thinking that it would
be an easier job than what I had been doing, I gave in my name. I think
nearly half of my company volunteered, but I was among the first eighteen
to be picked. We were armed with grenades enough to do an hour's bombing.
Two of the men were detailed to keep renewing the sandbags as they were
torn down by the boches' constant bombing. The German grenades, set with a
time fuse, exploded a few seconds after leaving the thrower's hand. The
boches were evidently nervous about these grenades, for they almost
invariably cut the time fuse too long or threw the bomb too soon after
cutting it, so that our men frequently caught the unexploded grenades and
hurled them back at the Germans.
The first two to go "west" when our volunteer party got into action were
the sandbag men, and at the end of that hour there were only four of us
left to come out of that Hell, ten being killed and four badly wounded.
After our turn, volunteers were entirely out of the question, so each
section had to take an hour at it. The trench point where the bombing
occurred was called the "Glory Hole," and it was well named.
Upon getting back to the trench, I swore off "bombing," and decided that I
would stick to scouting, although almost all the old scouts had been
killed. Why I was not, is still a mystery to me. After a few days at the
"Glory Hole" we were sent to the rear to billets.
You will remember that there were thirteen bullet holes in the Potsdam
bugle which I brought back from the charge on the German trenches near La
Bassee. How many of them were made after the bugle came into my possession
and was put in my pack, I do not know, but, at any rate, I believe that
thirteen is my lucky number. This is the reason: After a short rest in
billets, we were returned to a portion of the trench near a part we had
occupied before. The regiment had been recruited up to full strength
again, and I can tell you that there were very few of the original Black
Watch left. In fact, the personnel that we now had was almost a third
regiment. In order to reach the high broken ground to our right, where
there was a great deal of patrolling and scouting to be done, it was
necessary to cross an absolutely exposed strip of ground about thirty
yards long. So many men had been killed here that we called it "crossing
the bar" when we had to traverse this neck of land. You must remember, we
did not have a decent air fleet in those days and infantry patrolling and
scouting were much more important than they are to-day. From the high
ground to the right, much information of the movements of German troops
could be gained. Whenever they saw even a single man "crossing the bar,"
the Huns would let loose a salvo of artillery fire.
I usually waited until it was dark enough to see the flashes of their guns
before crossing this strip, and whenever I saw the first flash I would
sprint a few paces toward it and then flop down. The Germans had the range
exactly. By sprinting, I stood a good chance of getting in ahead of the
burst, and as shrapnel carried forward, the ruse worked nicely. In order
to show a party of the new scouts the way across the bar, I was sent out
with twelve of them, _thus making a party of thirteen_. Before we started
I drew a rough sketch for them and told them, as exactly as I could, just
what to do when we were fired upon. That we would be fired upon was a
certainty.
About the centre of this open strip was the dried bed of a stream between
deeply worn banks and this afforded the only protection on the way across.
When the light was just right, we moved out to the edge of the bar. I gave
my men a few last instructions. It was time to go. I took one last look
across the ground which was literally covered with shell splinters and
deeply furrowed.
"Rush!" I yelled. We went forward in a thin line.