OVERLAND
The normal position of man on the earth
is on its surface.
Generally speaking, when he is under
the surface he is in his wine cellar, or he is
dead. But at the front all this is altered.
Both the enemy and ourselves have reverted
to the cave age, for if we wish safety
in the lines--comparative safety, that is--we
pass our time in caves or cellars, dugouts or
trenches.
Not that living underground would be taken
as a matter of choice in the piping times of
peace. For the mud and dirt of the trenches
and dugouts cannot, by any stretch of the
imagination, be said to be comfortable or pleasant.
The fact that your only chance against
a hidden enemy is also to hide makes your
desires subservient to necessity. In fact, both
the enemy and ourselves are continually
burrowing deeper and deeper in each other's
direction. At the end of the burrow or tunnel we
place charges of dynamite to blow each other
out into the open. The fear that your enemy
may succeed in doing it to you first, and that
some fine day you may awaken to find
yourself sailing about in the heavens with no
support but the explosion which sent you there,
makes many a man on a dark night hear
imaginary tappings, causing him to report that he
fears the enemy are mining underneath us.
More than once out of the pitch darkness has
come into my dugout some lonely sentry to
tell me that he has heard mysterious
hammering underfoot, and only when we had
located the real cause as something other than
he thought, did his--and perhaps
our--nervousness disappear.
On one occasion a non-commissioned officer
came hurrying into the H.Q. dugout of a
certain Canadian battalion. With hair standing
on end he reported that an augur had actually
come through the bottom of the trench in
which he had been standing. The colonel
insisted on investigating this himself, and found
that a mole had bored his way through the
ground.
These fears may have an unconscious effect
in making everyone wish to get out of the
semi-darkness of the trenches into the bright
sunlight which dispels clammy feelings and fears
as if they were mists of the morning. But the
real reason for traveling overland is that at all
ages and in every clime the forbidden or
dangerous has its attractions. Thus it is that
out there both officers and men, contrary to
orders and upon the flimsiest of pretexts, climb
out of the trenches and in more or less plain
view of enemy snipers or observation posts
walk again like ordinary human beings on the
face of the earth.
This practice is very common where the
trenches are muddy, or knee or hip-deep in
water. It is the recognized custom after dark
when working parties are carrying up ammunition
or rations. Not rarely some of the men
of these parties are hit by bullets put across
from fixed machine-guns. It is a weird sight
on a dark night to go overland and, in the
dim light of the flares or star shells, to discern
long rows of men trudging along with packs
of supplies. They loom up suddenly before
you; or, perchance, a column of the ever-useful
packmules pass, patiently carrying their
burdens overland. And often by day one comes
across the body of a mule that was given rest
from its weary toil by a German bullet, at
which times one cannot but wonder if in a
happier land the patient, plodding,
much-abused packmule is given his just meed of
appreciation and kindness.
When someone pays the price of his recklessness
in going overland, the price is most
often exacted by a bullet. What insidious
little things bullets are! They sneak in and hit
you without forewarning you in any way, and
they may hit so hard that you do not know
you are hit even then. Most men out there
have more respect for them than for shells,
for often you have time to "duck" against the
side of a trench and so partly dodge a heavy
shell.
But you can't dodge a bullet. It gives
you a most uncanny feeling to be taking a
short cut overland, and suddenly to hear a
"ping-thud" just beside you, thus learning that
some German is trying to pot you as you
potted an innocent red deer on your last hunting
trip. Or you may be walking quietly through
apparently safe trenches, maybe dreaming of
your loved ones at home, when a bullet thuds
into the trench wall a few feet from your head,
insolently spattering mud into your face. Then
you know you are alive only by the grace of
God and the poor aim of the German.
But, despite these risks, all take the chance
of going overland to lessen a quarter-mile trip
by one hundred yards, or to miss a particularly
muddy bit of trench. Any day you choose
when you are five or six hundred yards from
the front line you may see scattered parties
of men crossing in the open.
The regimental aid post of the ---- Canadian
Battalion in October, 1916, when they were
doing their tour in the lines, could be reached
in two ways--one by trench, a roundabout
route of over a mile; the other one-half mile by
trench and one-quarter overland. The former
route was never employed, except on regular
relief days, officers and men passing daily the
one-quarter mile overland, only about six
hundred yards from the enemy front line. The
field ambulance stretcher bearers made the
trip twice daily, and one day when I was
crossing over with their sergeant I asked him why
the German snipers did not hit us.
"Oh, 'Heiny' is too busy keeping himself
out of sight to notice us," was the careless
reply. But at times those crossing this space
heard a bullet whistling nearby, or ping-thudding
into the ground close to their feet!
After a raid by our troops one early
winter's morning when I had been attending the
wounded for some time I came up to take a
breath of air. A trench led from this cellar
of mine some two thousand yards to a village
of reasonable safety, but the road cut off two
or three hundred yards of that distance. This
road was in plain sight of the Germans, yet
some of our wounded Tommies, walking cases,
were leading a crowd of five or six wounded
Huns by the road, the party altogether
numbering ten or twelve. As we watched them,
suddenly, within a few yards of them, burst
two shells. All the men broke into a double
and jumped into a trench beside the road while
a few more shells fell about. It is an ironical
truth that the only members of the party hit
were three of the Germans.
On a certain relief day when food was
scarce a medical officer started for a
Y.M.C.A. canteen in Neuville St. Vaast for some
chocolate, taking a short cut overland, as he
could save one hundred yards by this route.
Meeting a soldier he stopped to inquire as to
direction, and this saved the life of the officer,
for a shell struck the ground a few feet ahead
on the spot where he would have been had he
not stopped. As he and the Tommy hugged
a tree nearby two more shells struck the same
spot, sprinkling them with earth. They turned
and ran in the direction from which the doctor
had come, amidst the roars of laughter of
some soldiers in a trench at the sight of the
rather corpulent form of the medical officer
on the double; so little is thought out there
of narrow escapes! And when the officer made
the same trip in the dusk of evening he found
that the canteen had run out of chocolate!
In what had once been a little village, but
was now a mass of ruins, the trenches ran
through the streets. Our mess was situated in
the cellar of a house to which we could get
either in a roundabout way by trench, or by
crossing a road overland. No one ever dreamed
of going any other route than the overland,
despite the fact that the road was in plain view
of the Germans who had fixed on it a machine-gun
with which they now and then swept it
from end to end. I admit frankly that I never
crossed that road without a sigh of relief when
I reached the other side.
It was on a Christmas day. I started out to
make an inspection of my lines with my
sanitary sergeant and a runner who knew the best
routes. Arriving at a support trench, and
wishing to go to the firing line, the guide
started over the parapet. On being asked the
purpose he said that it was a much shorter way,
but, to my relief, the sergeant told him to
go by trench, for often one would rather go
through a dangerous zone than appear afraid
of it in the presence of his men.
However, we made the examination of the
lines. After we had finished the firing line and
were returning, we found ourselves crossing
overland by the route over which he had
attempted to take us to the front. He had led
us up a gradually ascending communication
trench, and so unknown to us had reached this
overland trail. Nothing happened, nothing
was said about it, but I certainly felt
relieved when I was once again in a trench
without having a German bullet sneaking between
my ribs. How little Tommy cares about
risking his life if it lessens his task!
In passing, it may be mentioned that on this
Christmas day none of that fraternizing took
place which had taken place the previous
Christmas. In fact, early on the Christmas
morning the battalion on our left, after a
severe bombardment, put on a raid, and Christmas
night the enemy retaliated with heavy stuff
of all kinds. Probably this is as it should be,
for while it may look well in print to read of
our troops and the Germans exchanging
cigarettes and eatables in No Man's Land, it is
detrimental to discipline, and injurious to the best
fighting spirit. It would be much more repugnant
to the Anglo-Saxon at any rate to kill men
with whom he had just passed a pleasant
social half hour. This may appear heartless,
but war is a heartless game, and fraternizing
may very well be left until after the peace
articles are signed.