As already noted, our enthusiasm for our own sphere of activity is
not always shared by our colleagues. For instance, we in the trenches
frequently find the artillery of both sides unduly obtrusive; and we
are of opinion that in trench warfare artillery practice should be
limited by mutual consent to twelve rounds per gun per day, fired by
the gunners _at_ the gunners. "Except, of course, when the Big Push
comes." The Big Push is seldom absent from our thoughts in these days.
"That," observed Captain Wagstaffe to Bobby Little, "would leave us
foot-sloggers to settle our own differences. My opinion is that we
should do so with much greater satisfaction to ourselves if we weren't
constantly interfered with by coal-boxes and Black Marias."
"Still, you can't blame them for loosing off their big guns,"
contended the fair-minded Bobby. "It must be great sport."
"They tell me it's a greatly overrated amusement," replied
Wagstaffe--"like posting an insulting letter to some one you dislike.
You see, you aren't there when he opens it at breakfast next morning!
The only man of them who gets any fun is the Forward Observing
Officer. And he," concluded Wagstaffe in an unusual vein of pessimism,
"does not live long enough to enjoy it!"
The grievances of the Infantry, however, are not limited to those
supplied by the Royal Artillery. There are the machine-guns and the
trench-mortars.
The machine-gunner is a more or less accepted nuisance by this time.
He has his own emplacements in the line, but he never appears to use
them. Instead, he adopts the peculiar expedient of removing his weapon
from a snug and well-fortified position, and either taking it away
somewhere behind the trenches and firing salvoes over your head (which
is reprehensible), or planting it upon the parapet in your particular
preserve, and firing it from there (which is criminal). Machine-gun
fire always provokes retaliation.
"Why in thunder can't you keep your filthy tea-kettle in its own
place, instead of bringing it here to draw fire?" inquired Mr.
Cockerell, not altogether unreasonably, as Ayling and his satellites
passed along the trench bearing the offending weapon, with
water-jacket aboil, back to its official residence.
"It is all for your good, my little man," explained Ayling loftily.
"It would never do to give away one's real gun positions. If we did,
the Bosches would sit tight and say nothing at the time, but just make
a note of the occurrence. Then, one fine morning, when they _really_
meant business, they would begin by droping a Black Maria on top of
each emplacement; and where would you and your platoon be then, with
an attack coming on and _us_ out of action? So long!"
But the most unpopular man in the trenches is undoubtedly the Trench
Mortar Officer. His apparatus consists of what looks like a section
of rain-pipe, standing on legs. Upon its upturned muzzle is poised
a bomb, having the appearance of a plum-pudding on a stick. This he
discharges over the parapet into the German trenches, where it causes
a comforting explosion. He then walks rapidly away.
For obvious reasons, it is not advisable to fire a trench-mortar too
often--at any rate from the same place. But the whole weight of public
opinion in our trench is directed against it being fired from anywhere
at all. Behold the Trench Mortar Officer and his gang of pariahs
creeping stealthily along in the lee of the parados, just as dawn
breaks, in the section of trench occupied by No. 10 Platoon. For the
moment they are unheeded, for the platoon are "standing-to," and
the men are lined along the firing-step, with their backs to the
conspirators.
On reaching a suitable spot, the mortar party proceed to erect their
apparatus with as little ostentation as possible. But they are soon
discovered. The platoon subaltern hurries up.
"Awfully sorry, old man," he says breathlessly, "but the C.O. gave
particular orders that this part of the trench was on no account to be
used for trench-mortar fire. You see, we are only about seventy yards
from the Bosche trenches here--"
"I know," explains the T.M.O.; "that is why I came."
"But it is most important," continues the platoon commander, still
quoting glibly from an entirely imaginary mandate of the C.O., "that
no retaliatory shell fire should be attracted here. Most serious
for the whole Brigade, if this bit of parapet got pushed over. Now,
there's a topping place about ten traverses away. You can lob them
over from there beautifully. Come along."
And with fair words and honeyed phrases he elbows the dispirited band
to a position--for his platoon--of comparative inoffensiveness.
The Trench Mortar Officer drifts on, and presently, with the uneasy
assurance of the proprietor of a punch-and-judy show who has
inadvertently strayed into Park Lane, attempts once more to give his
unpopular entertainment. This time his shrift is even shorter, for he
encounters Major Kemp--never at his sunniest in the small hours of the
morning.
Field officers have no need to employ the language of diplomacy when
dealing with subalterns.
"No, you _don't_, my lad!" announces the Major. "Not if I can help it!
Take it away! Take your darned liver-pill out of this! Burn, it! Bury
it! Eat it! But not here! Creep away!"
The abashed procession complies. This time they find a section
of trench in charge of a mere corporal. Here, before any one of
sufficient standing can be summoned to deal with the situation, the
Trench Mortar Officer seizes his opportunity, and discharges three
bombs over the parapet. He then retires defiantly to his dug-out.
But it is an Ishmaelitish existence.