But the night is wearing on. It is half-past one--time to knock off
work. Tired men, returning from ration-drawing or sap-digging, throw
themselves down and fall dead asleep in a moment. Only the sentries,
with their elbows on the parapet, maintain their sleepless watch. From
behind the enemy's lines comes a deep boom--then another. The big guns
are waking up again, and have decided to commence their day's work by
speeding our empty ration-waggons upon their homeward way. Let them!
So long as they refrain from practising direct hits on our front-line
parapet, and disturbing our brief and hardly-earned repose, they may
fire where they please. The ration train is well able to look after
itself.
"A whiff o' shrapnel will dae nae harrm to thae strawberry-jam
pinchers!" observes Private Tosh bitterly, rolling into his dug-out.
By this opprobrious term he designates that distinguished body of men,
the Army Service Corps. A prolonged diet of plum-and-apple jam has
implanted in the breasts of the men in the trenches certain dark
and unworthy suspicions concerning the entire altruism of those
responsible for the distribution of the Army's rations.
* * * * *
It is close on daybreak, and the customary whispered order runs down
the stertorous trench:--
"Stand to arms!"
Straightway the parapets are lined with armed men; the waterproof
sheets which have been protecting the machine-guns from the dews of
night are cast off; and we stand straining our eyes into the whitening
darkness.
This is the favourite hour for attack. At any moment the guns may open
fire upon our parapet, or a solid wall of grey-clad figures rise from
that strip of corn-land less than a hundred yards away, and descend
upon us. Well, we are ready for them. Just by way of signalising the
fact, there goes out a ragged volley of rifle fire, and a machine-gun
rips off half a dozen bursts into the standing corn. But apparently
there is nothing doing this morning. The day grows brighter, but there
is no movement upon the part of Brother Bosche.
But--what is that light haze hanging over the enemy's trenches? It is
slight, almost impalpable, but it appears to be drifting towards us.
Can it be--?
Next moment every man is hurriedly pulling his gas helmet over his
head, while Lieutenant Waddell beats a frenzied tocsin upon the
instrument provided for the purpose--to wit, an empty eighteen-pounder
shell, which, suspended from a bayonet stuck into the parados (or back
wall) of the trench, makes a most efficient alarm-gong. The sound is
repeated all along the trench, and in two minutes every man is in his
place, cowled like a member of the Holy Inquisition, glaring through
an eye-piece of mica, and firing madly into the approaching wall of
vapour.
But the wall approaches very slowly--in fact, it almost stands
still--and finally, as the rising sun disentangles itself from a pink
horizon and climbs into the sky, it begins to disappear. In half
an hour nothing is left, and we take off our helmets, sniffing the
morning air dubiously. But all we smell is the old mixture--corpses
and chloride of lime.
The incident, however, was duly recorded by Major Kemp in his report
of the day's events, as follows:--
4.7 A.M.--_Gas alarm, false. Due either to morning mist, or the fact
that enemy found breeze insufficient, and discontinued their attempt._
"Still, I'm not sure," he continued, slapping his bald head with a
bandana handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn't do
these trenches a considerable amount of good. It would tone down some
of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Waddell, if
I give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches
and ask them to drop it into the meter?"
"I do not think, sir," replied the literal Waddell, "that an English
shilling would fit a German meter. Probably a mark would be required,
and I have only a franc. Besides, sir, do you think that--"
"Surgical operation at seven-thirty, sharp!" intimated the major to
the medical officer, who entered the dug-out at that moment. "For
our friend here"--indicating the bewildered Waddell. "Sydney Smith's
prescription! Now, what about breakfast?"
* * * * *
About nine o'clock the enemy indulges in what is usually described,
most disrespectfully, as "a little morning hate"--in other words, a
bombardment. Beginning with a _hors d'oeuvre_ of shrapnel along the
reserve trench--much to the discomfort of Headquarters, who are
shaving--he proceeds to "search" a tract of woodland in our immediate
rear, his quarry being a battery of motor machine-guns, which has
wisely decamped some hours previously. Then, after scientifically
"traversing" our second line, which has rashly advertised its position
and range by cooking its breakfast over a smoky fire, he brings the
display to a superfluous conclusion by dropping six "Black Marias"
into the deserted ruins of a village not far behind us. After that
comes silence; and we are able, in our hot, baking trenches, assisted
by clouds of bluebottles, to get on with the day's work.
This consists almost entirely in digging. As already stated, these are
bad trenches. The parapet is none too strong--at one point it has been
knocked down for three days running--the communication trenches are
few and narrow, and there are not nearly enough dug-outs. Yesterday
three men were wounded; and owing to the impossibility of carrying a
stretcher along certain parts of the trench, they had to be conveyed
to the rear in their ground-sheets--bumped against projections, bent
round sharp corners, and sometimes lifted, perforce, bodily into view
of the enemy. So every man toils with a will, knowing full well that
in a few hours' time he may prove to have been his own benefactor.
Only the sentries remain at the parapets. They no longer expose
themselves, as at night, but take advantage of the laws of optical
reflection, as exemplified by the trench periscope. (This, in spite
of its grand title, is nothing but a tiny mirror clipped on to a
bayonet.)
At half-past twelve comes dinner--bully-beef, with biscuit and
jam--after which each tired man, coiling himself up in the trench, or
crawling underground, according to the accommodation at his disposal,
drops off into instant and heavy slumber. The hours from two till five
in the afternoon are usually the most uneventful of the twenty-four,
and are therefore devoted to hardly-earned repose.
But there is to be little peace this afternoon. About half-past three,
Bobby Little, immersed in pleasant dreams--dreams of cool shades and
dainty companionship--is brought suddenly to the surface of things
by--
"Whoo-oo-_oo_-oo-UMP!"
--followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dug-out. Earth and
small stones descend in a shower upon him.
"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head
out of the dug-out.
"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any
casualties?"
The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel,
which explodes a few yards short of the parapet, and showers bullets
and fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth
follow. Then comes a pause. A message is passed down for the
stretcher-bearers. Things are growing serious. Five minutes later
Bobby, having despatched his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds
with all haste to Captain Blaikie's dug-out.
"How many, Bobby?"
"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid,
sir."
Captain Blaikie looks grave.
"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming
from?"
"That wood on our left front, I think."
"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"
A figure appears in the doorway.
"Yes, sirr."
"Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27.
Retaliate!"
"Verra good, sirr."
The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five minutes.
"Major Cavanagh's compliments, sirr, and he is coming up himself for
tae observe from the firing trench."
"Good egg!" observes Captain Blaikie. "Now we shall see some shooting,
Bobby!"
Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by an orderly, who
pays out wire as he goes. The major adjusts his periscope, while the
orderly thrusts a metal peg into the ground and fits a telephone
receiver to his head.
"Number one gun!" chants the major, peering into his periscope;
"three-five-one-nothing--lyddite--fourth charge!"
These mystic observations are repeated into the telephone by the
Cockney orderly, in a confidential undertone.
"Report when ready!" continues the major.
"Report when ready!" echoes the orderly. Then--"Number one gun ready,
sir!"
"Fire!"
"Fire!" Then, politely--"Number one has fired, sir."
The major stiffens to his periscope, and Bobby Little, deeply
interested, wonders what has become of the report of the gun. He
forgets that sound does not travel much faster than a thousand feet
a second, and that the guns are a mile and a half back. Presently,
however, there is a distant boom. Almost simultaneously the lyddite
shell passes overhead with a scream. Bobby, having no periscope,
cannot see the actual result of the shot, though he tempts Providence
(and Zacchaeus) by peering over the top of the parapet.
"Number one, two-nothing minutes more right," commands the major.
"Same range and charge."
Once more the orderly goes through his ritual, and presently another
shell screams overhead.
Again the major observes the result.
"Repeat!" he says. "Nothing-five seconds more right."
This time he is satisfied.
"Parallel lines on number one," he commands crisply. "One round
battery fire--twenty seconds!"
For the last time the order is passed down the wire, and the major
hands his periscope to the ever-grateful Bobby, who has hardly got
his eyes to the glass when the round of battery fire commences.
One--two--three--four--the avenging shells go shrieking on their way,
at intervals of twenty seconds. There are four muffled thuds, and four
great columns of earth and _débris_ spring up before the wood. Answer
comes there none. The offending battery has prudently effaced itself.
"Cease fire!" says the major, "and register!" Then he turns to Captain
Blaikie.
"That'll settle them for a bit," he observes. "By the way, had any
more trouble with Minnie?"
"We had Hades from her yesterday," replies Blaikie, in answer to this
extremely personal question. "She started at a quarter-past five in
the morning, and went on till about ten."
(Perhaps, at this point, it would be as well to introduce Minnie a
little more formally. She is the most unpleasant of her sex, and her
full name is _Minenwerfer_, or German trench-mortar. She resides,
spasmodically, in Unter den Linden. Her extreme range is about two
hundred yards, so she confines her attentions to front-line trenches.
Her _modus operandi_ is to discharge a large cylindrical bomb into
the air. The bomb, which is about fifteen inches long and some eight
inches in diameter, describes a leisurely parabola, performing
grotesque somersaults on the way, and finally falls with a soft thud
into the trench, or against the parapet. There, after an interval of
ten seconds, Minnie's offspring explodes; and as she contains about
thirty pounds of dynamite, no dug-out or parapet can stand against
her.)
"Did she do much damage?" inquires the Gunner.
"Killed two men and buried another. They were in a dug-out."
The Gunner shakes his head.
"No good taking cover against Minnie," he says. "The only way is to
come out into the open trench, and dodge her."
"So we found," replies Blaikie. "But they pulled our legs badly the
first time. They started off with three 'whizz-bangs'"--a whizz-bang
is a particularly offensive form of shell which bursts two or three
times over, like a Chinese cracker--"so we all took cover and lay
low. The consequence was that Minnie was able to send her little
contribution along unobserved. The filthy thing fell short of the
trench, and exploded just as we were all getting up again. It smashed
up three or four yards of parapet, and scuppered the three poor chaps
I mentioned."
"Have you located her?"
"Yes. Just behind that stunted willow, on our left front. I fancy
they bring her along there to do her bit, and then trot her back to
billets, out of harm's way. She is their two o'clock turn--two A.M.
and two P.M."
"Two o 'clock turn--h'm!" says the Gunner major meditatively. "What
about our chipping in with a one-fifty-five turn--half a dozen H E
shells into Minnie's dressing-room--eh? I must think this over."
"Do!" said Blaikie cordially. "Minnie is Willie's Worst Werfer, and
the sooner she is put out of action the better for all of us. To-day,
for some reason, she failed to appear, but previous to that she has
not failed for five mornings in succession to batter down the same bit
of our parapet."
"Where's that?" asks the major, getting out a trench-map.
"P 7--a most unhealthy spot. Minnie pushes it over about two every
morning. The result is that we have to mount guard over the breach all
day. We build everything up again at night, and Minnie sits there as
good as gold, and never dreams of interfering. You can almost hear her
cooing over us. Then, as I say, at two o'clock, just as the working
party comes in and gets under cover, she lets slip one of her
disgusting bombs, and undoes the work of about four hours. It was a
joke at first, but we are getting fed up now. That's the worst of the
Bosche. He starts by being playful; but if not suppressed at once,
he gets rough; and that, of course, spoils all the harmony of the
proceedings. So I cordially commend your idea of the one-fifty-five
turn, sir."
"I'll see what can be done," says the major. "I think the best plan
would be a couple of hours' solid frightfulness, from every battery we
can switch on. To-morrow afternoon, perhaps, but I'll let you know.
You'll have to clear out of this bit of trench altogether, as we shall
shoot pretty low. So long!"