ALL FUSSED UP AND NO PLACE TO GO
Some days in the trenches are dreariness itself. Sometimes we get
discouraged to the point of exhaustion, but these days are rare and when
they do occur there is always an alleviation. In every trench, in every
section, there is some one who is a joker; who is a true humorist, and who
can carry the spirits of the troops with him to the place where grim
reality vanishes and troubles are forgotten.
The nights pass quickly enough because at night we have plenty to do. But
even while carrying out duties at night many humorous things happen. Take,
for instance, the passing of messages up and down the line.
To the civilian message-sending might appear much the same day or night,
but not so. In the day we can speak without fear of being overheard, but at
night no one knows but that Hans or Fritz may be a few feet on the other
side of the parapet with ears cocked for all sounds. So communications
have to be made with care. Sometimes the change of a syllable might alter
the meaning of a sentence and cause disaster.
A message at night is whispered in lowest tones from man to man. This is a
branch of the service for the young recruit to practise. It means much, and
a thoughtless error is unpardonable. The first man receives the
communication from the officer. Through the silence will come a soft
"Hs-s-s." The next in line will creep up and get the words. He in turn
calls to the next man and whispers on the order.
It was one night early in the fighting that Major Kirkpatrick sent the
message down the line four hundred yards along: "Major Kirkpatrick says to
tell Captain Parkes to send up reinforcements to the right in a hurry."
That was the message as I got it. That was the message as I transmitted it
to the next man. To Captain Parkes the message ran in a hurried whisper:
"Major Kirkpatrick says to tell Captain Parkes to send up 'three and
fourpence' to the right in a hurry."
When Major Kirkpatrick received three shillings and fourpence he was
almost in a state of collapse. Luckily, the situation was not serious, or
possibly we might have lost heavily. This shows how imperative it is to
have absolute accuracy.
Again, at nights there are different kinds of raids to be carried out.
Probably a raid by wire cutters, or possibly an actual trench raid. Nights
in France are not meant for sleep. There is usually one hour on duty and
two hours off, and something doing all the while.
But the days frequently grow long and tiresome. We sleep, we tell stories,
we read when there is anything to read, and we write letters if we have the
materials. Or, above all, we work out some new device to spring upon the
Boche.
In the early days of the war we knew nothing about hand grenades. The
Germans started to use them on us, but it was not a great while before we
fell into line and produced bombs to match theirs. At first we had the
Tickler variety as previously described; since then we have used the
"hair-brush" and others, but to-day we are using the standardized Mill hand
grenade.
I can never forget the first bomb that was thrown from our trench.
Volunteers were asked for this new and risky job. I will not mention the
name of the boy who volunteered in our section, but he was a big, hefty,
red-haired chap. He has since been killed. It is noticeable that red-haired
fellows are impetuous and frequently ahead of others in bravery, for a
moment or two, anyway.
That day there was an additional supply of mud and water in our trench. We
were dragging around in it until the bombing commenced, then we crowded
like boys round the big fellow, who was close to the parapet, his chest
stuck out, his voice vibrant with pride as he said, "Just you wait and see
me blow those fellows to smithereens--just you wait and see!"
In those days of makeshift bombs there was a nine-second fuse in each. We
were about thirty yards from the Germans' trench. Of course it would not
take nine seconds for the bomb to travel thirty yards; rather would it
arrive in three seconds, and give Hans and Fritz opportunity to pick it up
comfortably and return it in time for its explosion to kill us and not
them. Thus the order was to count at least five--one, two, three, four,
five--slowly and carefully, after the fuse was lighted and before the bomb
left the hand.
Every one had his eyes glued to the periscope, except myself. I watched the
fuse in the hand of that red-haired guy. He started to count--one, two, and
his hand began to shake; at three his hand was moving about violently; at
four the bomb fell. I wonder if there is any one in the world who thinks
that we stopped there to see that bomb explode. No, we didn't.
There was a chance right there for the quick thinker, for the man of
extraordinary initiative, to win the V.C. Somehow our initiative took us in
the other direction. It is really wonderful how fast the average man can
beat it when he knows there is certain death should he linger in one spot
very long. The way we traveled round the traverse and up the trenches was
not slow.
Usually there is something going on, but there are days when a man would
not think there was a war at all. It is not every day at the front that
both sides are shelling and strafing. We once faced a certain Saxon
regiment and for nearly two weeks neither side fired a bullet. This
particular Saxon regiment said to us: "We are Saxons, you are
Anglo-Saxons, we are not a bit fussy about shooting as long as you won't."
So, as our turns came periodically, we faced them and did not shoot.
Actually we sent out working parties in the daytime, both Saxon and
British, but such things do not happen any more. And such a situation never
yet happened with a Prussian or Bavarian regiment. Those devils like to
shoot for the sake of hearing their rifles go off.
There are days, when fighting at close quarters, that both sides feel
pretty good. The morning will be bright, and we may open the proceedings by
trying to sing German songs, and they will join in by singing British airs,
but always in a sarcastic manner, after putting words to them that I dare
not write.
On the first day of July, which is Dominion or Confederation Day, the
Germans began by singing to a certain Eastern Canadian regiment the first
verse of our national anthem, _O! Canada_. When they got through, they
politely asked the young braves of this regiment to sing the second verse.
The Canadian boys sent over a few bombs instead, for they did not know the
words of the second verse! Not to know the second verse seems to be one of
the idiosyncrasies of the peoples of all nations, bar the German!
Should we get tired of singing, we would shout across to the enemy
trenches. We would ask pertinent questions about their commanders and
impertinent ones about the affairs of their nation. One thing I can say for
Hans--he is never slow in answering. His repartee may be clumsy, but it is
prompt and usually effective.
We would inquire after the health of old "Von Woodenburg," old "One
O'clock," the "Clown Prince," or "One Bumstuff." Hans would take this in a
jocular way, slamming back something about Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Lloyd
George, or Sir Sham Shoes, but when we really wanted to get Fritz's goat we
would tease him about the Kaiser.
We would shout "_Gott strafe der Kaiser!_" That would put them up in the
air higher than a balloon. We would feel like getting out and hitting one
another, but we dare not even raise a finger because a sniper would take it
off. But after a lull there is always a storm, so before many minutes a
bullet would go "crack," which would be the signal for thousands of rifles
on both sides to commence an incessant firing. All this over nothing, and
nobody getting hurt.
It put me in mind of a couple of old women scrapping over a back-yard
fence, and as we say back home, "all fussed up and no place to go."