The field is flat, but the path runs downhill. Consequently we soon
find ourselves tramping along below the ground-level, with a
stout parapet of clay on either side of us. Overhead there is
nothing--nothing but the blue sky, with the larks singing, quite
regardless of the War.
"Communication trench," explains the guide.
We tramp along this sunken lane for the best part of a mile. It winds
a good deal. Every hundred yards or so comes a great promontory of
sandbags, necessitating four right-angle turns. Once we pass under the
shadow of trees, and apple-blossom flutters down upon our upturned
faces. We are walking through an orchard. Despite the efforts of ten
million armed men, brown old Mother Earth has made it plain that
seedtime and harvest shall still prevail.
Now we are crossing a stream, which cuts the trench at right angles.
The stream is spanned by a structure of planks--labelled, it is hardly
necessary to say, LONDON BRIDGE. The side-street, so to speak, by
which the stream runs away, is called JOCK'S JOY. We ask why?
"It's the place where the Highlanders wash their knees," is the
explanation.
Presently we arrive at PICCADILLY CIRCUS, a muddy excavation in the
earth, from which several passages branch. These thoroughfares are
not all labelled with strict regard for London geography. We note THE
HAYMARKET, also PICCADILLY; but ARTILLERY LANE seems out of place,
somehow. On the site, too, of the Criterion, we observe a subterranean
cavern containing three recumbent figures, snoring lustily. This bears
the sign CYCLISTS' REST.
We, however, take the turning marked SHAFTESBURY AVENUE, and
after passing (quite wrongly, don't you think?) through TRAFALGAR
SQUARE--six feet by eight--find ourselves in the actual firing trench.
It is an unexpectedly spacious place. We, who have spent the winter
constructing slits in the ground two feet wide, feel quite lost in
this roomy thoroughfare. For a thoroughfare it is, with little toy
houses on either side. They are hewn out of the solid earth, lined
with planks, painted, furnished, and decorated. These are, so to
speak, permanent trenches, which have been occupied for more than six
months.
Observe this eligible residence on your left. It has a little door,
nearly six feet high, and a real glass window, with a little curtain.
Inside, there is a bunk, six feet long, together with an ingenious
folding washhand-stand, of the nautical variety, and a flap-table.
The walls, which are painted pale green, are decorated with elegant
extracts from the "Sketch" and "La Vie Parisienne." Outside, the name
of the villa is painted up. It is in Welsh--that notorious railway
station in Anglesey which runs to thirty-three syllables or so--and
extends from one end of the façade to the other. A small placard
announces that Hawkers, Organs, and Street-cries are prohibited.
"This is my shanty," explains a machine-gun officer standing by. "It
was built by a Welsh Fusilier, who has since moved on. He was here all
winter, and made everything himself, including the washhand-stand.
Some carpenter--what? of course I am not here continuously. We have
six days in the trenches and six out; so I take turns with a man in
the Midland Mudcrushers, who take turns with us. Come in and have some
tea."
It is only ten o'clock in the morning, but tea--strong and sweet, with
condensed milk--is instantly forthcoming. Refreshed by this, and a
slice of cake, we proceed upon our excursion.
The trench is full of men, mostly asleep; for the night cometh, when
no man may sleep. They lie in low-roofed rectangular caves, like the
interior of great cucumber-frames, lined with planks and supported by
props. The cave is really a homogeneous affair, for it is constructed
in the R.E. workshops and then brought bodily to the trenches and
fitted into its appointed excavation. Each cave holds three men. They
lie side by side, like three dogs in a triple kennel, with their heads
outward and easily accessible to the individual who performs the
functions of "knocker-up."
Others are cooking, others are cleaning their rifles. The proceedings
are superintended by a contemplative tabby cat, coiled up in a niche,
like a feline flower in a crannied wall.
"She used ter sit on top of the parapet," explains a friendly
lance-corporal; "but became a casualty, owin' to a sniper mistakin'
'er for a Guardsman's bearskin. Show the officer your back,
Christabel!"
We inspect the healed scar, and pass on. Next moment we round a
traverse--and walk straight into the arms of Privates Ogg and Hogg!
No need now to remain with the distinguished party from Headquarters.
For the next half-mile of trench you will find yourselves among
friends. "K(1)" and Brother Bosche are face to face at last, and here
you behold our own particular band of warriors taking their first
spell in the trenches.
Let us open the door of this spacious dug-out--the image of an
up-river bungalow, decorated with window-boxes and labelled Potsdam
View--and join the party of four which sits round the table.
"How did your fellows get on last night, Wagstaffe?" inquires Major
Kemp.
"Very well, on the whole. It was a really happy thought on the part of
the authorities--almost human, in fact--to put us in alongside the old
regiment."
"Or what's left of them."
Wagstaffe nods gravely.
"Yes. There are some changes in the Mess since I last dined there," he
says. "Anyhow, the old hands took our boys to their bosoms at once,
and showed them the ropes."
"The men did not altogether fancy look-out work in the dark, sir,"
says Bobby Little to Major Kemp.
"Neither should I, very much," said Kemp. "To take one's stand on a
ledge fixed at a height which brings one's head and shoulders well
above the parapet, and stand there for an hour on end, knowing that
a machine-gun may start a spell of rapid traversing fire at any
moment--well, it takes a bit of doing, you know, until you are used to
it. How did you persuade 'em, Bobby?"
"Oh, I just climbed up on the top of the parapet and sat there for a
bit," says Bobby Little modestly. "They were all right after that."
"Had you any excitement, Ayling?" asks Kemp. "I hear rumours that you
had two casualties."
"Yes," says Ayling. "Four of us went out patrolling in front of the
trench--"
"Who?"
"Myself, two men, and old Sergeant Carfrae."
"Carfrae?" Wagstaffe laughs. "That old fire-eater? I remember him at
Paardeberg. You were lucky to get back alive. Proceed, my son!"
"We went out," continues Ayling, "and patrolled."
"How?"
"Well, there you rather have me. I have always been a bit foggy as to
what a patrol really does--what risks it takes, and so on. However,
Carfrae had no doubts on the subject whatever. His idea was to trot
over to the German trenches and look inside."
"Quite so!" agreed Wagstaffe, and Kemp chuckled.
"Well, we were standing by the barbed wire entanglement, arguing the
point, when suddenly some infernal imbecile in our own trenches--"
"Cockerell, for a dollar!" murmurs Wagstaffe. "Don't say he fired at
you!"
"No, he did worse. He let off a fireball."
"Whew! And there you stood in the limelight!"
"Exactly."
"What did you do?"
"I had sufficient presence of mind to do what Carfrae did. I threw
myself on my face, and shouted to the two men to do the same."
"Did they?"
"No. They started to run back towards the trenches. Half a dozen
German rifles opened on them at once."
"Were they badly hit?"
"Nothing to speak of, considering. The shots mostly went high. Preston
got his elbow smashed, and Burke had a bullet through his cap and
another in the region of the waistband. Then they tumbled into the
trench like rabbits. Carfrae and I crawled after them."
At this moment the doorway of the dugout is darkened by a massive
figure, and Major Kemp's colour-sergeant announces--
"There's a parrty of Gairmans gotten oot o' their trenches, sirr. Will
we open fire?"
"Go and have a look at 'em, like a good chap, Wagger," says the Major.
"I want to finish this letter."
Wagstaffe and Bobby Little make their way along the trench until they
come to a low opening marked MAXIM VILLA. They crawl inside, and find
themselves in a semicircular recess, chiefly occupied by an earthen
platform, upon which a machine-gun is mounted. The recess is roofed
over, heavily protected with sandbags, and lined with iron plates;
for a machine-gun emplacement is the object of frequent and pressing
attention from high-explosive shells. There are loopholes to right
and left, but not in front. These deadly weapons prefer diagonal or
enfilade fire. It is not worth while to fire them frontally.
Wagstaffe draws back a strip of sacking which covers one loophole,
and peers out. There, a hundred and fifty yards away, across a sunlit
field, he beholds some twenty grey figures, engaged in the most
pastoral of pursuits, in front of the German trenches.
"They are cutting the grass," he says. "Let 'em, by all means! If they
don't, we must. We don't want their bomb-throwers crawling over here
through a hay-field. Let us encourage them by every means in our
power. It might almost be worth our while to send them a message. Walk
along the trench, Bobby, and see that no excitable person looses off
at them."
Bobby obeys; and peace still broods over the sleepy trench. The only
sound which breaks the summer stillness is the everlasting crack,
crack! of the snipers' rifles. On an off-day like this the sniper is
a very necessary person. He serves to remind us that we are at war.
Concealed in his own particular eyrie, with his eyes for ever laid
along his telescopic sight, he keeps ceaseless vigil over the ragged
outline of the enemy's trenches. Wherever a head, or anything
resembling a head, shows itself, he fires. Were it not for his
enthusiasm, both sides would be sitting in their shirt-sleeves upon
their respective parapets, regarding one another with frank curiosity;
and that would never do. So the day wears on.
Suddenly, from far in our rear, comes a boom, then another. Wagstaffe
sighs resignedly.
"Why can't they let well alone?" he complains. "What's the trouble
now?"
"I expect it's our Divisional Artillery having a little target
practice," says Captain Blaikie. He peers into a neighbouring
trench-periscope. "Yes, they are shelling that farm behind the German
second-line trench. Making good shooting too, for beginners," as a
column of dust and smoke rises from behind the enemy's lines. "But
brother Bosche will be very peevish about it. We don't usually fire at
this time of the afternoon. Yes, there is the haymaking party going
home. There will be a beastly noise for the next half-hour. Pass the
word along for every man to get into his dug-out."
The warning comes none too soon. In five minutes the incensed Hun is
retaliating for the disturbance of his afternoon siesta. A hail
of bullets passes over our trench. Shrapnel bursts overhead.
High-explosive shells rain upon and around the parapet. One drops into
the trench, and explodes, with surprisingly little effect. (Bobby
Little found the head afterwards, and sent it home as a memento of his
first encounter with reality.)
Our trench makes no reply. There is no need. This outburst heralds no
grand assault. It is a mere display of "frightfulness," calculated to
cow the impressionable Briton. We sit close, and make tea. Only the
look-out men, crouching behind their periscopes and loopholes, keep
their posts. The wind is the wrong way for gas, and in any case we all
have respirators. Private M'Leary, the humorist of "A" Company, puts
his on, and pretends to drink his tea through it.
Altogether, the British soldier appears sadly unappreciative either of
"frightfulness" or practical chemistry. He is a hopeless case.
The firing ceases as suddenly as it began. Silence reigns again,
broken only by a solitary shot from a trench-mortar--a sort of
explosive postscript to a half hour's Hymn of Hate.
"And that's that!" observes Captain Blaikie cheerfully, emerging from
Potsdam View. "The Hun is a harmless little creature, but noisy when
roused. Now, what about getting home? It will be dark in half an hour
or so. Platoon commanders, warn your men!"
It should be noted that upon this occasion we are not doing our full
spell of duty--that is, six days. We have merely come in for a spell
of instruction, of twenty-four hours' duration, under the chaperonage
of our elder and more seasoned brethren.
Bobby Little, having given the necessary orders to his sergeant,
proceeded to Trafalgar Square, there to await the mustering of his
platoon.
But the first arrival took the form of a slow-moving procession--a
corporal, followed by two men carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher
lay something covered with a ground-sheet. At one end projected a pair
of regulation boots, very still and rigid.
Bobby caught his breath. He was just nineteen, and this was his first
encounter with sudden death.
"Who is it?" he asked unsteadily.
The corporal saluted.
"Private M'Leary, sirr. That last shot from the trench-mortar got him.
It came in kin' o' sideways. He was sittin' at the end of his dug-oot,
gettin' his tea. Stretcher party, advance!"
The procession moved off again, and disappeared round the curve of
Shaftesbury Avenue. The off-day was over.