NIGHTS OF GLADNESS!
Our nights around Ploegsteert fully made up for the peacefulness of the
days, and "No Man's Land" between the two lines of trenches became the
scene of many exciting adventures.
This was particularly true of the area directly in front of us, as a
large beanfield extended from the German line nearly to ours. It was a
dull night indeed that our listening post did not either bomb, or get
bombed by, an enemy patrol. Casualties, though, were fewer than one
would expect from such combats, as bombs are very local in their action,
and it was not easy to locate the enemy's position exactly by ear as he
rustled his way through the beans.
Behind the lines there was less romantic work; for General Joffre, in an
odd moment, had sent a circular letter to the various divisions calling
attention to a new form of trench for protection against shell fire,
and we dug these trenches till there was hardly a foot of Allied soil
unturned. Later, during the rains, we drained our living trench into
them on the principle that the uncomfortable sensation experienced
during a heavy shelling would act as a distraction to the inconvenience
of standing in several feet of water.
While we were in these trenches the enemy fired the dry yellow grass in
"No Man's Land" a few nights after their capture of our line at
Sanctuary Wood, near Hooge, with the flame projectors or
"flammenwerfers." A hurried "stand-to" was ordered, as we thought a
similar attack was about to be made.
But the fire died down and we saw no signs of the enemy coming over. It
was, however, an anxious night, and great interest was taken in widening
our wire entanglements as more and more details of the Hooge affair
trickled down to us. How we longed for a supply of the iron stakers that
our patrols brought in time after time from the German wire! We got
them, too--later.
Later the Germans could not have burned down our wire, even had they
tried, as a week of heavy rains came on, and, on such trifles do the
fates of nations hang, these had a most serious effect on the "Autumn
Push"--it was already September--as our offensive around Hulluch and
Loos was called.
We were in reserve during the first two days of the attack, and received
with clock-like regularity the _communiques_ telling of our successful
advances.
Our gunners were co-operating by the process known as "engaging the
enemy's artillery," but we did not doubt that the Toronto Battalion,
then occupying our trenches, were having rather a warm time of it, as
the Hun, instead of being a sportsman and shelling our batteries, used
to retaliate on our trenches.
We set off the following day for the trenches. It had started to rain
about 4 o'clock, so that by 7, when we reached the head of Mud Lane, we
had no reason to doubt the origin of this homely name.
In pleasing contrast to our growlings and grumblings as we took their
places, the Toronto men filed out prophesying all sorts of cheerful
things in store for us. All we could see ahead of us was plenty of work,
for the shelling they had received had smashed down our bulwarks and
annihilated the officers' kitchen--rather an elaborate structure, of
which we were justly fond--and they, in the sure and certain knowledge
of a relief, had only cleared away enough of the _debris_ to make the
trench passable.
[Illustration: OUR TRENCHES, PLUGSTREET WOOD.]
Meanwhile our listening posts, soothed with a wee drappie o' rum, went
over the parapet laden down with waterproof sheets fully determined to
make the best of a bad job, our sentries were posted, and the welcome
order to "Stand down" came along the trench. Those of us not otherwise
occupied turned into our dug-outs and were soon asleep. After a certain
stage one becomes unconscious to even a revolver-butt prodding one in
the ribs.
It seemed only a few minutes before the sergeant thrust his head into my
dug-out with a "Midnight, sir!" I groped around for my pocket lamp and
looked at my watch--some way you always hope the sergeant is wrong, but
he never is--and tumbled out to relieve poor Lyte, who had spent a
miserable four hours.
A rift in the clouds showed our friends of the midnight watch--the Great
Bear and Cassiopeia--twinkling merrily as though it had never rained for
a fortnight.
I sloshed my way down to the far end of the trench. Pools of water lay
ankle deep here and there along its length. Already one or two men, who
had just come off sentry, had started to drain these into little
catch-pools. From here it was baled by means of the ever-useful
Maconachie tin into an equally useful biscuit tin, which was afterwards
dumped on the enemy's side of the parapet.
In other places the men had turned in and were already asleep, so they
were promptly stirred up and told to "Get busy," and, for the night, the
blosh of the baling tin took the place of the smack of a shovel on a
freshly-placed sandbag.
At frequent intervals it was necessary to crawl out and visit the
listening posts, who lay in the rank grass just beyond our own wire.
On returning, not only were one's feet wet, but knees and elbows as
well. Then it was up and down the trench again for another hour or so.
A fine drizzle set in and the stars again disappeared, the drizzle
turning to a steady shower.
I retired to company headquarters, only emerging when necessary to visit
the sentries and listening posts again. There, by the aid of a
sputtering candle, I sought diversion in the shape of a sevenpenny novel
that some kindly soul had forgotten in his haste to be relieved.
[Illustration: OUR TRENCHES AT PLUGSTREET.]
Just as I reached the stage where I could sort the various characters
into their ultimate _roles_ of hero, villain, and heroine the sergeant
again intruded with the news that one of the listening posts reported an
enemy patrol approaching. A few flares were fired up, but revealed
nothing except a white glare of grass field, the bean patch, and the
inky black of a few willows with our listening posts huddled at their
bases. These men were, of course, invisible to the enemy, as the flare
had fallen between their line and the willows. A flare must fall behind
the object aimed at to reveal anything with accuracy.
Even a couple of parachute lights fired from "Little Archibald," as we
called the special gun used for these larger flares, revealed nothing,
so I gave up in disgust, woke the only two men who had not been
disturbed all night, tied a couple of sandbags around each knee, and
once again disappeared over the parapet.
An hour later, on returning, the signaller warned me it was time for
the "situation" report. I scrawled out the usual formula, "Situation
unchanged; enemy quiet; wind northerly," and handed him the form.
It was ten minutes late, and though the adjutant would not read it till
morning I knew I was in for a wigging. Wet and disgusted I turned to my
dug-out.
A few minutes later traces of dawn showed themselves in the east. The
rain ceased and a fine mist took its place. The men stumbled out to
their rifles in response to the order "Stand to," and I made a final
promenade of the trench, dragging out a man here and there who was
tardy.
Then I stirred up the officer of the day and handed over my duties.
The mist cleared away, showing the German line, grim and formidable as
ever!
Another day had dawned.
It was on such a dawn as this that poor Jack L----, my platoon-sergeant,
was killed. The fog had lifted a little, revealing an enemy patrol to
our listening post.
He, taking the nearest two men with him, went out in search of them, and
a flare falling near the little party showed them up to the enemy
snipers. He alone was hit.
We buried him in the battalion cemetery the next day, the colonel
reading the service over his body, and we thought as we lowered him into
his grave what a very good friend he had been.
It was not very many days later that we changed from this brigade area
to another, leaving Ploegsteert with its memories, sad and otherwise,
behind us.