How the Scotch Snipers Fortified Themselves Against a German Attack at
Dawn
What may be described as a domestic scene in a dugout was presented
with a flavor of humor by a correspondent in the mid-year of 1917. It
was at a strategic point just behind the British first line trench.
Though the men were ignorant of the reasons for a recent move, the fact
was that officers were preparing to meet a German attack. The occupants
of the dugout were snipers of Scotch nativity and not over fond of
“blatherin’.” Unlike the usual failings and infirmities of the dugout,
flooded or swampy, this was dry and comfortable. There were shelves
on which their rifles were stacked, along with telescope sights and
other instruments important to snipers, who are invariably the crack
shots of the riflemen. There were pegs—bayonets thrust in between the
sandbags—for the equipment of the men. Conveniences and advantages not
a few; and room for comfortable grouping.
We are introduced to the scene as preparations for a substantial meal
are under way. Though the battalion had been hurried up from a village
behind the lines where it had enjoyed a month’s rest, the rations had
arrived, and moreover the careful purveyors of the sniper squad had
brought along two plump hares shot the day before, and these were being
devotionally fitted to the service of the inner man on the principal
brazier. Another brazier was assigned to the less honorable office of
heating water for tea. A few tallow dips feebly lighted the place and
gave curious, half-substantial aspects to the men under the wavering
canopy of smoke from pipes and cigarettes.
A huge Scot is hanging solicitously over the cooking hares, wholly
absorbed in the delightful occupation. He gives no heed to the men
surrounding him in critical inspection of his performance, eagerly
expectant of the result. These critical watchers are exceedingly
careful, however, to make no comment to reflect upon the culinary
skill of the man sedulously stirring the savory contents of the “dixie”
over the brazier. The group reminded the correspondent of the gnomes
Rip Van Winkle found in the Catskill mountains; solemn they were, grave
with a sense of their responsibility. The Scots are not over given to
gaiety, however sensitive to humor of their own conceiving.
Gravest of all the assembly are those seated nearest the brazier, where
the hare soup is stewing, and it is not difficult to infer that they
are the veterans, the supersnipers, of the section. Their age, the
manner in which the younger snipers defer to them and give them place,
the cool confidence of their every look and movement, all mark them out
as leaders among men.
A notable group it was. Says the correspondent:
“Each a man of distinct personality, yet collectively the deadliest
unit on the whole battle-line; each of a name known outside the
division and of a skill which has brought the section success in the
trenches and credit on the test rifle-ranges behind the lines. Yet no
trace of arrogance shows itself in their demeanor, and the careless
observer might possibly have only caught a hint of the great reserve
strength embodied in each of them. And all sit gravely and watch big
Adam, who wields the spoon, stir the soup.”
Suddenly there is a diversion from the other end of the dugout. Here
two or three younger men have been sitting, and their conversation,
gradually rising in key, has been slowly breaking in as a disturbing
factor to the solemnity of their elders round the brazier. The noise
now reaches a climax and an indignant voice exclaims:
“Ye’re just a blether, Jimmy Duffus; just a big, bletherin’ eediot.”
[Illustration:
© _New York Herald._