THE DEAD SHELL[1]
A late September mist, more hazy than foggy in its character, enveloped
the line following a heavy deluge of nearly two days that had poured
almost a foot of water in our trenches, and in some spots where holes
had formed in the trench-bed the water came gurgling over the knee. On
the whole, however, conditions were very much less worse than wading in
the water up to one's waist, which was our common lot in the earlier
days of the war. As one of our wags had it, "Mud under me, water around
me and hell above me."
[Footnote 1: _A dead shell is one that explodes at a predetermined time
after it strikes--from one minute to several hours._]
For nearly a month Fritz had been inordinately busy with his "dead"
shells; we had no rest from his activities. If there was an interval of
time when we were not being served with the "dead" messages, the hiatus
was filled with whiz-bangs and gas. Whichever his fancy dictated, for us
it was the Devil's choice.
Following orders, under the friendly shelter of night's curtain, I was
leading my squad to our gun positions in the front line, about three
miles distant, and in slipping and sliding over the muddy ground, pitted
with holes in such a manner as to suggest to one's mind that the earth's
surface had been scourged with an attack of elephantine smallpox, we
could not help chuckling, in spite of the discomforts of our journey, at
the ejaculation of a Cockney Tommy: "Strike me pink, Sergeant, but Fritz
would think we was his pals if he only saw this goose-step work." This
was an allusion to the fashion we had to employ in picking our steps on
the lookout for holes. In this region the fair face of nature is
distorted in every conceivable way with holes and ditches, some of the
holes big enough to engulf a house, and it is no mere desire to avoid
the water in these holes that compels us to pick our steps in this
hell-swept part of the world; it is the first law of nature, self
preservation, for many a poor lad has been done to death in them by
drowning.
On this night my squad, including myself, was composed of 13 men, and
although none of the men, if they did notice it, mentioned the
coincidence, I must confess, although I myself studiously refrained
from making any comment about it, the thought of the fateful number kept
recurring to my mind as we made our way to the spot where the visits of
the Grim Reaper were so frequent that death had ceased to be anything
but an every-day occurrence. It was only when some friend or chum paid
the supreme price that we gave the matter any particular attention, and
then it would be for but a short time. The necessity of every man's
looking out for his own life gave him but little time to think of much
else, unless, indeed, killing the Huns. Next to saving our own lives
that is the heartfelt desire of each man--get Fritz. And yet, although
the first thought of everyone is, naturally, for his own life, there is
no history in this war that can be written that can recount the number
of occasions when the seeming first thought of men was to do for their
pals, utterly regardless of their own safety. For sheer toying with
death and taking chances in situations that did not seem to offer the
slightest hope or chance of getting through, the Great War discloses
feats of valor with which nothing can compare that comes out of the mist
of "Days of old when knights were bold."
After goose-stepping for over an hour, and almost completely winded, we
flopped on the ground for a few minutes to catch our breath. We were
within about half-a-mile of the ridge over which we had to go in order
to get down into our dugouts, and Fritz' calling cards were commencing
to come in our direction; star shells were shooting up at short
intervals, the gleam of a flare every now and then plainly revealing
ourselves to each other. As we sat there the conversation seemed to lag
and a silence that struck me as somewhat ominous pervaded our little
group. I wondered if the rest were thinking of our number. One of my
best chums, Corporal Lawrence, was sitting next me, and I thought I
heard him sigh.
"What's the matter, Corporal, winded?" I asked.
"No, no, Sergeant, I was just thinking."
"Thinking? Thinking of what? The cookhouse? I'll bet we are all thinking
about that."
"No, Sergeant, it was not the cookhouse."
"Well, if it wasn't the cookhouse, is it that letter that is coming for
you tonight?" said I.
"No, you are wrong, Sergeant; it wasn't either of those things, much as
I would enjoy both the letter and the grub."
I felt that the gloom would become infectious if it were not immediately
dissipated, and I blurted out, "Well, for God's sake, don't keep us all
in suspense; how in hell are we going to go on until we know what you
are thinking about?"
His answer made me sorry I spoke.
"I was just thinking," said he, "that my number is up."
This is an expression of the men on the Western Front when they have a
premonition that their time on earth is short. A sudden fear smote me,
but I banished the thought and started jollying him profanely.
"Now, Corporal, you know what damn nonsense it is to talk that way! Do
you want to wish it on yourself?"
"No, Grant, I should say not, but I can't help thinking it, all the
same."
"Yes, Lawrence," said McLean. "For God's sake don't wish any trouble on
us more than we have got."
Billy McLean was my dearest pal; we had enlisted together and had formed
one of those attachments that men sometimes make and is only severed by
death, and we shared each other's most intimate thoughts. The words had
scarcely died on McLean's lips when--Woo-o-f! Bang! Bang! and shells
commenced to land all about us.
The spot we had selected to rest on was under observation; Fritz had
evidently become aware of the fact that it was our usual course in
coming to the trench and had registered the place for a target, just as
he registered battery roads, ammunition depots, railway heads, sleeping
quarters,--everywhere and anywhere that exhibited a trace of life
immediately became an observation target and was subject to a hail of
shell and shrapnel any hour of the day or night.
We were all slightly stunned by the dose, but recovered our senses in a
minute or so.
"All right, fellows, let's be going," I said, and up we jumped, all
except Lawrence.
"Come on, Corporal, finish your dream in the dugout." He made no reply.
With a sickening at my heart I went over and put my hand on his face; it
was wet with his life's blood; he was shot through the head. As
hurriedly and as gently as possible we laid him in a hollow place and
started for the ridge; we had no time for even a prayer, as we were
being treated to a fair-sized fusillade, and ducking and dodging, this
way and that, we made our way to the top as quickly as every ounce of
energy left in our legs would permit, and rolled, tumbled, scrambled and
fell--any old way--down the front side of the ridge into the ditch at
the bottom, that was dignified by the high-sounding title of trench. It
was as much a trench at that spot as any bog-hole. Its only virtue lay
in the fact that if we crouched low enough into the water and mud we
could escape the watchful eye of the enemy. We stumbled along through
the inky blackness toward our gun positions, shrinking our anatomy to
its smallest dimensions each time a flare shot up, and I was commencing
to congratulate myself that we would reach our destination without any
further hurt than the elimination of the thirteenth man;--I took a sort
of sad comfort in the superstitious thought;--but we had still another
target to pass. The Germans had made an observation point of a part of
our ditch just a little bit farther along, and when we got to the spot
we received a blast of shell fire that knocked us out of even our power
to swear; we hadn't the strength; as a matter of fact, we were suffering
with a slight shell shock. The dose consisted of about 200 shells,
administered in quantities, first, of six at a time, then ten, then
twenty-five.
One of the fellows nearest me again ventured the remark that he thought
our number was up, and I just had enough vocal power left to curse him
roundly for a damn fool. "You know what happened Lawrence, don't you?
Cheer up, you mutt! They will never get my number."
Throughout my three years' campaigning I persisted in repeating that
"they would never get my number," until it almost became second nature
with me, and the hairbreadth escapes I have had almost convinced me
"there is something in it." Be that as it may, hundreds of men all
around have "gone West" while I have been permitted to go through three
years of it comparatively unscathed.
We finally got past the observed spot. The trench now commenced to run
into a valley, and although there was water in it to a depth of fully
two and a half feet, through which we had to wade, we were glad we were
alive to paddle through it. But there was more trouble ahead. Fritz was
turning gas into the valley, and I, being in front, got the first
whiff.
"Masks, on with your masks," I roared, jamming on my own at the same
moment. In addition to the gas, our friends had succeeded in shooting up
a large ammunition dump, four hundred yards farther on, and the smoke
and fumes from the exploding bombs, shells and other ammunition, to say
nothing of the ear-splitting din, got me speculating as to whether our
13-squad was to go the way of so many reported thirteens. But my native
optimism came to the rescue, and, with a curse, I drove the thought from
me.
By this time our eyes were so blinded and stinging from the smoke of the
ammunition fire that we were making our way almost by instinct, as we
were half blinded, but the time-old provision of all things,--"Never a
disadvantage without a corresponding advantage,"--came to our help.
Under cover of the smoke we were practically secure from the shells and
snipers, and stumbling and staggering round the fire, giving it a wide
berth, we at last got to our gun position.
But, no rest! We had barely arrived when a delayed action shell battery
opened up on us with a steadily-increasing fire, and, as the pace grew
hotter every moment, I felt as if my nerves couldn't hold out longer;
but the knowledge that these men were in my care helped me again to take
hold of myself. But the rest of the fellows were commencing to show
signs of giving way to the shock effect. My best pal, Billy McLean,
staggered toward me. "They've got my number, they've got my number," he
shouted in my ear, and, beginning to give way to the shock, he fell at
my feet, in the mud. I grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. "Cheer
up, Billy, cheer up, old pal, how in hell are we going to pull through
if you give way like this?"
"It's no use, Reg, they've got my number," and he moaned half
hysterically as he leaned on me with an arm around my neck. Almost
desperate, I shouted in his ear, "Billy, old pal, think of your mother
and father; what would the old man say if he saw you acting like this?
You know those hounds haven't a shell for either of us."
He roused himself: "I guess I haven't got the guts, Sergeant; I must be
a damned coward."
"No, no, nothing of the kind, old fellow," I shouted, "but these boys
are in my charge and I want you to help me play the game." He braced
himself. "You're right, Sergeant, they haven't got our number and never
will have." "Of course they won't," I answered reassuringly.
Poor Billy! His was a nature that was never intended for the business of
killing; he was in constant dread and his nerves were always on edge
when he was within shelling distance of the enemy, and he couldn't seem
to shake off the terrible fear that was ever present except when in the
top-notch excitement of going over; that was the only moment that he was
able to throw off the blighting shadow that haunted him. Then indeed
have I seen him throw the very first instincts of prudence to the winds
and hurl himself into places where "angels fear to tread." But after the
mad frenzy of the charge, with its accompaniment of shooting, stabbing,
killing and maiming, he would collapse, and it would be some hours
before he could regain his wonted composure.
The fire gradually slackened, our spirits began to revive, nature
commenced to reassert herself, and we made our way to the cookhouse. We
got our mess-tins filled with bread, cheese and jam, puddled our way to
the dugout and fell to with the relish of healthy, hungry, tired men who
had fasted several hours. We gathered in the dugout occupied by Billy
and myself. Feeling thoroughly rejuvenated, someone suggested a game to
pass the time until mail arrived, and the well-worn deck was produced.
Billy was sitting on my right hand and held cards that ought to have
cleaned up, but he seemed to have lost the first instinct of a poker
player, and I couldn't refrain from telling him he ought to confine
himself to checkers. He whispered to me, "Reg, I can't get that out of
my head." "What's that?" I asked.
"Fritz has my number; my time's nearly up and I know it." "Oh, hell!" I
exclaimed, with a good-natured impatience, and giving him a poke in the
ribs, "Forget it!"
The rest of the fellows chimed in with recollections of several fellows
who persisted in saying that their number was up, and who were now
pushing poppies, and the little Cockney murmured, "The poor beggars, and
if they had kept their mouths shut they'd 'ave been with us yet."
It is a strange philosophy, but it is prevalent up and down the line.
At that moment the mail arrived, and Billy forgot his premonition for
the time, for along with letters from his mother and sister, there was a
photograph from his sweetheart that he showed me with suppressed joy.
"I say, fellows, what do you think of that for good time," said one, "my
letters were both mailed on the 13th and this is only the 29th."
"That's a rum go," says the Cockney, "mine, too, was mailed on the
13th."
An examination of the mailing dates of our letters revealed the somewhat
startling coincidence that every single letter we got that night had
been mailed on the 13th. I mentally cursed the fateful number, but the
news from home overshadowed the thought, as it did everything else, and
I was careful to do everything I could to prevent its recurrence in the
conversation. And, besides, the British soldier's fatalism, that death
will come when it will come, prevented for long any gloom or
oppressiveness in the atmosphere that might have been engendered by the
time-old superstition. It was only in the exceptional cases when a
soldier got into his head the premonition that his number was up that
his spirits took a drop. I wish it were possible to convey in exact
language the wonderful spirit of the men under circumstances and
conditions endured by no soldiers in any other war since primeval man
enforced his claims with his club.
Every man in the squad got letters and parcels that evening, and, all
things considered, it was a happy bunch that left us to seek their bunks
in their own dugouts. Billy and I remained up awhile after the others
had gone, chatting about the home folks and, particularly, about his
sweetheart, for at every opportunity he would turn the talk in her
direction; he was positive there was no other girl quite so sweet as
Aileen, for that was her name, and there was nothing for me to do but
affirm everything he said.
"Reg, I want you to promise me one thing," said Billy, after we had been
talking for an hour or more.
"What is it, Billy? You know I'll do it, old scout, if I can."
"Yes, I know you will. Well, it is this: I've told you how I came to
correspond with Aileen, and, altho' I've never seen her yet, I really
think she is one real girl. But here's the rub," he continued; "I don't
really love the girl; I'm not such an idiot as to fall in love with a
girl I have never seen; and you know lots of these photos are fifty per
cent camouflage, ain't they?"
"You're dead right, old chap," I replied.
"Well, now, this one may be in the other fifty, and I'm thinking she is;
and if you should get home before I do, will you look her up and let me
know just exactly what you think of her?"
"Why, of course I will."
"That's what I wanted, Reg. You see, God only knows when I may get home,
if I ever do, but I don't want to be nursing ideas about Aileen, and
perhaps causing thoughts to arise in her mind, that may never be
realized. You get me, Reg, don't you?"
"Surest thing, Billy, and you're damned right and sensible to look at it
that way."
So that when we finally tumbled in, it was long after the witching hour
of night.
The dugout we occupied we had built ourselves, and we took great pains
to make it as roomy and comfortable as possible; hence the tendency of
the fellows to make it their rendezvous. Our bunks consisted of sandbags
spread out on the floor, and the ceremony of retiring occupied about one
minute or less.
A half-muffled shriek woke me from a sound sleep and brought me bolt
upright in the bunk. In the blackness I could just discern the outline
of a man standing in the middle of the dugout and gulping as if trying
to catch his breath. I jumped up and went to him. It was Billy. "What is
it, Billy? What's the trouble?"
"Oh, Reg," he gasped, "I have had the most horrible dream!" He was
shaking like an aspen. I put my arm around him and drew him over to my
bunk. "Come, lie down with me, old man, and you will be as right as the
rain in a minute." He laid down alongside of me and, still shivering, he
recounted his dream to me.
"Do you remember that night I was telling you about when I was out
observing?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Where we lost Thompson and the others when the flare went up? Well, you
know that big Prussian I told you about, that came so near getting me?
Do you know that fellow's face has never been out of my thoughts since I
killed him, and I dreamed we were out there on that same spot again, and
again the flare went up and we were rushed, and who should come at me
but this man I had killed. I shrieked: 'You're dead! I killed you once.
Get to hell out of here!' But he only gave a ghoulish grin and came at
me. I dodged his blow and ran my bayonet through him, as I thought, but
there he was coming at me again. Again I dodged and plunged into him,
and again he was coming. Suddenly all power left me; my hands, arms and
legs became nerveless, and I stood rooted; he clubbed his rifle, and as
it crashed on my skull I awoke, and that must have been the time I cried
out. And, Reg, just as sure as I am lying here, my number is up. I am as
good as dead, I tell you."
"Now, don't talk such utter damn nonsense, Billy," I said, doing my
utmost to comfort him.
"No damn nonsense about it. You know yourself we started out yesterday
with thirteen men and Lawrence got it, and here tonight every letter we
got was postmarked the thirteenth, and I just can't get it out of my
nut, and I am not going to try any further."
"Billy, don't you want to live to get back home? Don't you know what it
will mean to your mother and your father if anything happens to you?
Well, what's the use of tempting fate? If it will come, it will come,
and nothing you or I can do will prevent it; but there is something
that helps a man--call it luck, or fate, or providence, or what you
will--by keeping the idea firmly fixed in your mind that nothing can
harm you."
I knew in my heart that nothing could prevent the dread messenger's
visit when it was actually headed for one, still my philosophy had
taught me that so far as I myself was concerned my determination to
think positively about the matter had sustained me through many a trying
moment when the fires of hell had surged about me, and up to that time I
was as much alive as any man could wish to be, and I determined to stick
to the philosophy, no matter how foolish it might seem when the cold
light of logic played upon it.
A deep sigh was his answer. I continued for half an hour to encourage
and jolly him, telling him that dreams always went by the contrary, and
my efforts were rewarded by his growing calm and promising he would
fight tooth and nail against the thought, and we finally dropped off to
sleep.
"Show a leg, Grant, show a leg, cookhouse up," was yelled at me as
daylight broke, and up we tumbled. I was much relieved that Billy was
looking and acting as if nothing whatever disturbed him, except the
possibility of being a second behind anybody else in getting to the
cookhouse.
Although we were bosom friends and companions, there was just a shade of
the big-brother idea on my part of the fellowship, and I kept track of
him whenever and wherever I could. This was not alone because of the
congenial soul that was within him, but, also, because I had learned
through him to know his mother. And such a mother! It is a forward
impetus on life's journey to know such a woman, and I knew instinctively
she would expect me to keep an eye on him. And so, while I was
fulfilling my duty, I had the double satisfaction of having combined
with it the pleasure of association with a fellow whose tastes and
ideals were absolutely akin to my own. There was no confidence we did
not share; we laid bare our hearts to each other; in short, we were
chums in every sense that the word implies.
Billy was ready for breakfast a second or two ahead of me, and he
started up the steps, out through the door of the dugout. "I'm coming,"
I called, and grabbed my mess-tin and went up the steps two at a time.
I reached the top and the door of the dugout, and, simultaneously, a
roar and rush of air struck me, and I was thrown to the floor, stunned
for the moment. My senses quickly recovered themselves, and I found my
face and clothes dripping with blood. I commenced looking for my wound,
but failed to find any. The discovery momentarily mystified me. It was
blood, but whose? There was no report or explosion. A dead shell! A
terrible fear took possession of me, and I shot up the steps into the
trench. The Thing that met my eyes stilled my heart with a chill. The
headless body of Billy lay at my feet. It was his life's blood that
covered my face and clothes. A mist shrouded my brain for a moment, as I
leaned against the side of the trench, utterly unable to speak or think.
Then as the truth of the Thing worked its way into my brain, I glanced
around for the cause. A large, jagged hole had been torn through in our
front trench wall by a 300-pound shell, had snuffed out my pal's life in
its course, and buried itself in the parados of the trench. There it
was, the rear end of it just inside the outside edge of the hind trench
wall, and when it exploded it meant death for any living thing within a
radius of several yards.
Nature's primal law asserted itself and I dragged the remains of my
best-loved friend several yards away and took from his pockets all his
belongings and trinkets, and when I came to the photograph, partly
stained with his heart's blood, hot, scalding tears blinded my eyes, and
in deference to my dead friend's desire, I retained the photo, intending
to get the news and picture back to her--in person, if possible. The
O.C. took charge of the balance of his effects.
Disregarding all thought of my own peril from the unexploded shell which
lay at the mouth of our dugout, I ran down the steps and got a blanket,
in which I wrapped the poor headless body, and then reported to the O.C.
and received orders to keep my men away from the spot for twelve hours.
I hastened to the cookhouse and imparted the news to the men, as well as
the orders. Heartfelt expressions of regret came from all, for in spite
of his constitutional nervousness, Billy was a prime favorite. But I
knew that I was the only one with whom the pain and sting would live;
the men were so calloused by such happenings that they no longer made a
lasting impression.
That was the longest and dreariest day I ever remember throughout my
three years of campaigning. No thought of my turn coming entered my
head, as I had so schooled myself into the belief that Fritz could not
make a shell for me that I had long since ceased to give the matter any
consideration whatsoever.
The day's work kept me from giving way to grief, and at nine o'clock
that night, when in the cookhouse, I heard a whistle and someone shouted
my name. It was our O.C., Major Wright. I hastened to his dugout.
"Sergeant Grant, I want you to take a party of six and make a grave and
bury poor McLean. I know something of the relationship that existed
between you, and I know that you will spare no effort to see that he is
properly buried. While you are working I will try and fashion a cross
for him. Report as soon as you are finished."
"Yes, sir," and I saluted and went to the dugout occupied by my squad.
The men were either reading or writing letters, and not only the six,
but the ten of them responded, dropping their letters and books, and
asked to take part in the burial. So we paddled through the darkness
and the mud to where the body lay, and as we approached we noticed
several huge rats scurrying away from it. A hatred for the vermin almost
as intense as for the Hun has possessed me ever since. Of course, the
bestiality of the latter has descended to such depths of infamy that it
is impossible quite to class them with any other breed of vermin; it
would be an insult even to the rat.
We dug the grave as well as we could, assisted by such light as we got
from the intermittent flashes of the guns and the edge of the flare
gleams sent up by the enemy every little while. When the melancholy work
was almost complete, I hurried over to the O.C. and he handed me the
simple cross he had made,--just two pieces of wood with the inscription,
"William McLean, C.E.F., September 30th, 1916, R.I.P."
"When you have finished, Grant, take the party and build up the part of
your trench that was shot away this morning."
I saluted and returned to the grave. The boys had finished; there was
nothing more on earth we could do for Billy.
"O.C. says to build up the hole in the trench that was shot away this
morning; you can go, fellows; get busy and I will be with you in a
minute." They started and I was alone. Bitter tears again half blinded
me as I placed the sign of the Christ at the grave's head; I couldn't
place it at Billy's, because the shell had obliterated all traces of his
head. With a short but very earnest prayer that God would help his
mother and dear ones to sustain their loss and soften their grief, I
hurriedly rejoined my men. On the way over I could not help thinking how
lonely it would be that night in the dugout without Billy, and memories
of the hundred and one incidents connected with our toil and trouble and
joy in fixing up our nest flocked through my tired mind.
They were hard at work mending the damage done at daybreak by that
messenger of hell. As I reached the spot, one of the boys remarked, "If
that shell explodes before we get through, there will be no need of a
grave for us." Very nearly fifteen hours had passed, however, since it
had struck, and none of us felt there was any danger from that
direction, as it was quite uncommon for any of them to burst if they had
not done so within at least twelve hours, and I answered, "Oh, no,
fellows, there is nothing to fear from it." I stepped to the back of the
trench where the shell was imbedded in the parados and examined the
spot. "I guess it is there for keeps," I said, and returned to work. In
a few minutes one or two of the boys complained of thirst, and I
volunteered to get water. I ran down the steps into my dugout, got
Billy's water bottle and my own, and doubled down to the cook's dugout,
filled them with drinking water, and was just starting back when the
ground under me shook with an explosion, splinters coming from all
directions, and one of them slightly wounding the cook. I thought at
first Fritz had struck an ammunition depot, so tremendous was the roar.
I grabbed the bottles and shot back to my party.
They did not need the water; they had been swept into eternity by the
dead shell, and I was the sole surviving man of the thirteen-squad that
I had taken into the line the night before.