IN THE TRENCHES
Major R., who is a great admirer of things English, suddenly gave the
command to his men, and out of compliment to us "It's a long way to
Tipararee" rang out. The pronunciation of the words was most odd and we
listened in wonder; the Major's chest however positively swelled with
pride, for he had taught them himself! We assured him, tactfully, the
result was most successful.
We returned to the Headquarters and sorted out stores for the trenches.
The Major at that moment received a telephone message to say a farm in
the Nieuport direction was being attacked. We looked up from our work
and saw the shells bursting like fireworks, the noise of course was
deafening. We soon got accustomed to it and besides had too much to do
to bother. When all was ready, we were given our instructions--we were
to keep together till we had passed through the village when the doctor
would be there to meet us and, with a guide, conduct us to the trenches;
we were all to proceed twenty paces one after the other, no word was to
be spoken, and if a Verey light showed up we were to drop down flat. I
hoped fervently it might not be in a foot of mud!
Off we set, and I must say my heart was pounding pretty hard. It was
rather nervy work once we were beyond the town, straining our eyes
through the darkness to follow the figure ahead. Occasionally a sentry
popped up from apparently nowhere. A whispered word and then on we went
again. I really can't say how far we walked like this; it seemed
positively miles. Suddenly a light flared in the sky, illuminating the
surrounding country in an eerie glare. It didn't take me many minutes,
needless to say, to drop flat! Luckily it was _pavé_, but I would have
welcomed mud rather than be left standing silhouetted within sight of
the German trenches on that shell-riddled road. Finally we saw a long
black line running at right angles, and the guide in front motioned me
to stop while he went on ahead.
I had time to look round and examine the place as well as I could and
also to put down my bundle of woollies that had become extremely heavy.
These trenches were built against a railway bank (the railway lines had
long since been destroyed or torn up), and just beyond ran the famous
Yser and the inundations which had helped to stem the German advance. I
was touched on the shoulder at this point, and clambered down into the
trench along a very slippery plank. The men looked very surprised to see
us, and their little dug-outs were like large rabbit hutches. I crawled
into one on my hands and knees as the door was very low. The two
occupants had a small brazier burning. Straw was on the floor--the straw
we had previously seen on the men's backs--and you should have seen
their faces brighten at the sight of a new pair of socks. We pushed on,
as it was getting late. I shall never forget that trench--it was the
second line--the first line consisting of "listening posts" somewhere in
that watery waste beyond, where the men wore waders reaching well above
their knees. We squelched along a narrow strip of plank with the
trenches on one side and a sort of cesspool on the other--no wonder they
got typhoid, and I prayed I mightn't slip.
We could walk upright further on without our heads showing, which was a
comfort, as it is extremely tiring to walk for long in a stooping
position. Through an observation hole in the parapet we looked right out
across the inundations to where the famous "Ferme Violette," which had
changed hands so often and was at present German, could plainly be seen.
Dark objects were pointed out to us sticking up in the water which the
sergeant cheerfully observed, holding his nose the meanwhile, were
_sales Boches_! We hurried on to a bigger dug-out and helped the doctor
with several _blessés_ injured that afternoon, and later we helped to
remove them back to the village and thence to a field hospital. Just
then we began bombarding with the 75's. which we had seen earlier on.
The row was deafening--first a terrific bang, then a swizzing through
the air with a sound like a sob, and then a plop at the other end where
it had exploded--somewhere. At first, as with all newcomers in the
firing line, we ducked our heads as the shells went over, to a roar of
delight from the men, but in time we gave that up. During this
bombardment we went on distributing our woollies all along the line, and
I thought my head would split at any moment, the noise was so great. I
asked one of the officers, during a pause, why the Germans weren't
replying, and he said we had just got the range of one of their
positions by 'phone, and as these guns we were employing had just been
brought up, the Boche would not waste any shells until they thought they
had our range.
Presently we came to the officer's dug-out, and, would you believe it,
he had small windows with lace curtains! They were the size of pocket
handkerchiefs; still the fact remains, they _were_ curtains. He showed
us two bits of a shell that had burst above the day before and made the
roof collapse, but since then the damage had been remedied by a stout
beam. He was a merry little man with twinkling eyes and very proud of
his little house.
Our things began to give out at this point and we were not at the end of
the line by any means. It was heart breaking to hear one man say, "Une
paire de chaussettes, Mees, je vous en prie; il y a trois mois depuis
que j'en ai eu." (A pair of socks, miss, I beseech you, it's three
months since I had any). I gave him my scarf, which was all I had left,
and could only turn sorrowfully away. He put it on immediately,
cheerfully accepting the substitute.
We were forced to make our adieux at this point, as there was no reason
for us to continue along the line. We promised to bring more things the
next night and start at the point where we had left off. I thought
regretfully it would be some days before my turn came round again.
The same care had to be observed on the return journey, and we could
only speak in the softest of whispers. The bombardment had now died away
as suddenly as it had begun. The men turned from their posts to whisper
"_Bon soir, bonne chance_," or else "_Dieu vous bénisse_." The silence
after that ear-splitting din was positively uncanny: it made one feel
one wanted to shout or whistle, or do something wild; anything to break
it. One almost wished the Germans would retaliate! That silent monster
only such a little way from us seemed just waiting to spring. We crawled
one by one out of the trenches on to the road, and began the perilous
journey homewards with the _blessés_, knowing that at any moment the
Germans might begin bombarding. As we were resting the Captain of the
battery joined us, and in the semi-darkness I saw he was offering me a
bunch of snowdrops! It certainly was an odd moment to receive a bouquet,
but somehow at the time it did not seem to be particularly out of place,
and I tucked them into the belt of my tunic and treasured them for days
afterwards--snowdrops that had flowered regardless of war in the garden
of some cottage long since destroyed.
Arrived once more at Headquarters we were pressed to a _petit verre_ of
some very hot and raw liqueur, but nevertheless very warming, and very
good. I felt I agreed with the Irish coachman who at his first taste
declared "The shtuff was made in Hiven but the Divil himself invinted
the glasses!" We had got terribly cold in the trenches. After taking
leave of our kind hosts we set off for the Hospital.
It was now about 1.30 a.m., and we were stopped no less than seventeen
times on our way back. As it was my job to lean out and whisper into the
sentry's "pearly," I got rather exasperated. By the time I'd passed the
seventeenth "Gustave," I felt I'd risk even a bayonet to be allowed to
snooze without interruption. The _blessés_ were deposited in Hospital
and the car, once rid of its wounded load, sped through the night back
to Lamarck, and I wondered sleepily if my first visit to the trenches
was a reality or only a dream.