BLIND MAN’S BUFF
The Sergeant stumbled round the corner of the traverse and told the
four men there that the battalion was moving along the trench to the
right, and to “get on and follow the next file.” They rose stiffly,
aching in every joint, from their cramped positions, and plodded and
stumbled round the corner and along the trench. They were all a good
deal amazed to see the chaotic state to which it had been reduced by
the shell fire, and not only could they understand plainly now why so
many casualties had been borne past them, but found it difficult to
understand why the number had not been greater.
“By the state of this trench,” said Larry, “you’d have thought a
battalion of mice could hardly have helped being blotted out.”
“It licks me,” agreed Kentucky; “the whole trench seems gone to smash;
but I’m afraid there must have been more casualties than came past us.”
“Look out!” warned Billy Simson, “’ere’s another,” and the four halted
and crouched again until the shell, which from the volume of sound of
its coming they knew would fall near, burst in the usual thunder-clap
of noise and flying débris of mud and earth. Then they rose again and
moved on, and presently came to a dividing of the ways, and a sentry
posted there to warn them to turn off to the left. They scrambled and
floundered breathlessly along it, over portions that were choked almost
to the top by fallen earth and rubble, across other parts which were
no more than a shallow gutter with deep shell craters blasted out of
it and the ground about it. In many of these destroyed portions it was
almost impossible, stoop and crouch and crawl as they would and as
they did, to avoid coming into view of some part of the ground still
held by the Germans, but either because the German guns were busy
elsewhere, or because the whole ground was more or less veiled by the
haze of smoke that drifted over it and by the thin drizzle of rain that
continued to fall, the battalion escaped any concerted effort of the
German guns to catch them in their scanty cover. But there were still
sufficient casual shells, and more than sufficient bullets about, to
make the passage of the broken trench an uncomfortable and dangerous
one, and they did not know whether to be relieved or afraid when they
came to a spot where an officer halted them in company with about a
dozen other men, and bade them wait there until he gave the word, when
they were to jump from the trench and run straight across the open to
the right, about a hundred yards over to where they would find another
trench, better than the one they were now occupying, then to “get down
into it as quick as you can, and keep along to the left.” They waited
there until a further batch of men were collected, and then the officer
warned them to get ready for a quick run.
“You’ll see some broken-down houses over there,” he said; “steer for
them; the trench runs across this side of them, and you can’t miss it.
It’s the first trench you meet; drop into it, and, remember, turn down
to the left. Now--no, wait a minute.”
They waited until another dropping shell had burst, and then at the
quick command of the officer jumped out and ran hard in the direction
of the broken walls they could just see. Most of the men ran straight
without looking left or right, but Kentucky as he went glanced
repeatedly to his left, towards where the German lines were. He was
surprised to find that they were evidently a good way off, very much
further off, in fact, than he had expected. He had thought the last
communication trench up which they moved must have been bringing them
very close to our forward line, but here from where he ran he could see
for a clear two or three hundred yards to the first break of a trench
parapet; knew that this must be in British hands, and that the German
trench must lie beyond it again. He concluded that the line of captured
ground must have curved forward from that part behind which they had
spent the night, figured to himself that the cottages towards which
they ran must be in our hands, and that the progress of the attack
along there had pushed further home than they had known or expected.
He thought out all these things with a sort of secondary mind and
consciousness. Certainly his first thoughts were very keenly on the
path he had to pick over the wet ground past the honeycomb of old and
new shell holes, over and through some fragments of rusty barbed wire
that still clung to their broken or uptorn stakes, and his eye looked
anxiously for the trench toward which they were running, and in which
they would find shelter from the bullets that hissed and whisked past,
or smacked noisily into the wet ground.
There was very little parapet to the trench, and the runners were
upon it almost before they saw it. Billy Simson and Larry reached it
first, with Pug and Kentucky close upon their heels. They wasted no
time in leaping to cover, for just as they did so there came the rapid
_rush-rush_, _bang-bang_ of a couple of Pip-Squeak shells. The four
tumbled into the trench on the instant the shells burst, but quick as
they were, the shells were quicker. They heard the whistle and thump of
flying fragments about them, and Billy Simson yelped as he fell, rolled
over, and sat up with his hand reaching over and clutching at the back
of his shoulder, his face contorted by pain.
“What is it, Billy?” said Larry quickly.
“Did it get you, son?” said Kentucky.
“They’ve got me,” gasped Billy. “My Christ, it do ’urt.”
“Lemme look,” said Pug quickly. “Let’s ’ave a field-dressin’, one o’
yer.”
Simson’s shoulder was already crimsoning, and the blood ran and dripped
fast from it. Pug slipped out a knife, and with a couple of slashes
split the torn jacket and shirt down and across.
“I don’t think it’s a bad ’un,” he said. “Don’t seem to go deep, and
it’s well up on the shoulder anyway.”
“It’s bad enough,” said Billy, “by the way it ’urts.”
Kentucky also examined the wound closely.
“I’m sure Pug’s right,” he said. “It isn’t anyways dangerous, Billy.”
Billy looked up suddenly. “It’s a Blighty one, isn’t it?” he said
anxiously.
“Oh, yes,” said Kentucky; “a Blighty one, sure.”
“Good enough,” said Billy Simson. “If it’s a Blighty one I’ve got
plenty. I’m not like you, Pug; I’m not thirstin’ enough for Germ
’elmets to go lookin’ any further for ’em.”
One of the sergeants came pushing along the trench, urging the men to
get a move on and clear out before the next lot ran across the open for
the shelter.
“Man wounded,” he said, when they told him of Billy Simson. “You,
Simson! Well, you must wait ’ere, and I’ll send a stretcher-bearer
back, if ye’re not able to foot it on your own.”
“I don’t feel much up to footin’ it,” said Billy Simson. “I think I’ll
stick here until somebody comes to give me a hand.”
So the matter was decided, and the rest pushed along the narrow trench,
leaving Simson squatted in one of the bays cut out of the wall. The
others moved slowly along to where their trench opened into another
running across it, turned down this, and went wandering along its
twisting, curving loops until they had completely lost all sense of
direction.
The guns on both sides were maintaining a constant cannonade, and
the air overhead shook continually to the rumble and wail and howl
of the passing shells. But although it was difficult to keep a sense
of direction, there was one thing always which told them how they
moved--the rattle of rifle fire, the rapid rat-tat-tatting of the
machine guns and sharp explosions of bombs and grenades. These sounds,
as they all well knew, came from the fighting front, from the most
advanced line where our men still strove to push forward, and the enemy
stood to stay them, or to press them back.
The sound kept growing ominously louder and nearer the further the
Stonewalls pushed on along their narrow trench, and now they could
hear, even above the uproar of the guns and of the firing lines, the
sharp hiss and zipp of the bullets passing close above the trench,
the hard smacks and cracks with which they struck the parapet or the
ground about it. The trench in which they moved was narrow, deep, and
steep-sided. It was therefore safe from everything except the direct
overhead burst of high-explosive shrapnel, and of these there were,
for the moment, few or none; so that when the men were halted and kept
waiting for half an hour they could see nothing except the narrow strip
of sky above the lips of the trench, but could at least congratulate
themselves that they were out of the inferno in which they had spent
the night and the early part of the morning. It was still raining, a
thin, cold, drizzling rain, which collected in the trench bottom and
turned the path into gluey mud, trickled down the walls and saturated
them to a sticky clay which daubed the shoulders, the elbows, the hips,
and haversacks of the men as they pushed along, coated them with a
layer of clinging, slimy wetness, clammy to the touch, and striking
them through and through with shivering chills. When they halted most
of the men squatted down in the bottom of the trench, sitting on
their heels and leaning their backs against the walls, and waited
there, listening to the near-by uproar of the conflict, speculating
on how little or how long a time it would be before they were into
it actively; discussing and guessing at the progress the attack had
made, and what ground had been taken, and held or lost. Here and
there a man spoke of this point or that which the attack had reached,
of some village or hill, or trench, which he heard had been taken.
Usually the information had been gleaned from wounded men, from the
stretcher-bearers and ammunition carriers with whom the Stonewalls had
spoken, as they crossed and recrossed their trench early that morning.
In the trench they now occupied they gleaned no further news, because
none of these wayfarers to and from the firing-line passed their way.
“Our front line can’t be getting pushed very hard,” suggested Larry;
“because if they were, they’d have shoved us in support before now.”
“It looks to me,” said Kentucky, “that they have slid us off quite
a piece to the right of where we were meant to go. What lot of ours
do you suppose is in these trenches in front of us now?” But of that
nobody had any definite opinion, although several made guesses, based
on the vaguest rumors, and knowledge of this regiment or that which
had gone up ahead of them.
“’Ark at the Archies,” said Pug suddenly. “They’re ’avin’ a busy season
on somebody. D’yer think they’re ours, or the ’Uns’?”
“I don’t know,” said Kentucky, “but I fancy I hear the ’planes they’re
shooting at.”
He was right, and presently they all heard the faint but penetrating
whirr of an aeroplane’s engines, even above the louder and deeper note
of the cannonade and rifle fire.
“There she is,” said Larry. “Can you see the marks on her?”
“It’s ours,” said Kentucky. “I see the rings plain enough.”
Although the aeroplane was at a good height, there were several who
could distinguish the bull’s-eye target pattern of the red, white and
blue circles painted on the wings and marking the aeroplane as British.
For some time it pursued a course roughly parallel to the line of the
trench, so that the Stonewalls, craning their heads back, could follow
its progress along the sky, and the trailing wake of puffing smoke
from the shrapnel that followed it. They lost sight of it presently
until it curved back into the range of their vision, and came sailing
swiftly over them again. Then another ’plane shot into view above them,
steering straight for the first, and with a buzz of excited comment the
Stonewalls proclaimed it a Hun and speculated keenly on the chances of
a “scrap.”
There was a “scrap,” and in its opening phases the Stonewalls had an
excellent view of the two machines circling, swooping, soaring, and
diving in graceful, bird-like curves. The “Archies” ceased on both
sides to fling their shrapnel at the airy opponents, because with their
swift dartings to and fro, and still more because of their proximity
to one another, the Archie gunners were just as liable to wing their
own ’plane and bring it down, as they were to hit the enemy one. For
two or three minutes the Stonewalls watched with the wildest excitement
and keenest interest the maneuvering of the two machines. Half a dozen
times a gasp or a groan, or a chorus of comment “He’s hit,” and “He’s
downed,” and “He’s got him,” followed some movement, some daring plunge
or nose dive of one or other of the machines; but always before the
exclamations had finished the supposed injured one had righted itself,
swooped and soared upward again, and swung circling into its opponent.
Once or twice the watchers thought they could catch the faint far-off
rattle of the aeroplanes’ machine guns, although amongst the other
sounds of battle it was difficult to say with any certainty that these
shots were fired in the air; but just when the interest and excitement
were at their highest, a sharp order was passed along the trench for
every man to keep his face down, on no account to look upwards out of
the trench, and officers and sergeants, very reluctantly setting the
good example by stooping their own heads, pushed along the trench to
see that the men also obeyed the order.
“Blinkin’ sell, I calls it,” exclaimed Pug disgustedly. “The fust
decent scrap between two ’planes I’ve ever ’ad a chance to see, and
’ere I’m not allowed to look at it.”
“You wait until you get ’ome, and see it on the pictures,” said the
Sergeant, who stood near them. “It’ll be a sight safer there. If you
don’t know you ought to, that a trench full of white faces lookin’
up at a ’plane, is as good as sending a postcard to their spotter
upstairs sayin’ the trench is occupied in force; and I don’t suppose,”
he concluded, “you’re any more anxious than I am for that ’Un to be
sendin’ a wireless to his guns, and ’avin’ this trench strafed like the
last one was.”
“From what I can see of it,” said Pug, “that ’Un up there was ’avin’
’is ’ands too full to worrit about wot was goin’ on down ’ere.”
“Well, anyhow,” said the Sergeant, “you needn’t keep yer eyes down
lookin’ for sixpences any longer. Both the ’planes is out of sight.”
“Well, I’m blowed,” said Pug, “if that’s not a sickener. ’Ere we ’as
a fust-class fight, and us in the front seats for seein’ it, and they
goes and shifts off so we don’t even know which side won.”
And they never did. A minute later the anti-aircraft guns broke out
into fire again, their peculiar singing reports easily distinguishable
from the other gun fire, even as the distant reports of their shrapnel
bursts in the air were distinguishable from the other sounds of many
bursting shells near the ground. But which of the “Archibalds” were
firing they did not know. They could only guess that one of the
machines had been shot down, and that the anti-aircraft guns of the
opposing side were endeavoring to bring down the victor--but which
was the victor, and whether he escaped or not, was never known to the
Stonewalls.
“Bloomin’ Blind-Man’s-Buff, I calls it,” grumbled Pug. “Gropin’ round
after ’Uns you can’t see, an’ gettin’ poked in the ribs without seein’
one--like Billy was.”