seconds we heard the Boches streaming along their narrow new sap.
They took it for granted we had cleared back to our line, and they
made no attempt to disguise their coming. In fact, from the rate at
which they rushed along that narrow ditch I could almost swear that
some came without rifles or anything. We waited till the near end of
the sap was full, and then: "A hundred and one," etc. We gave 'em our
second volley, and immediately on top of it our third. It must have
been a regular shambles. Slade and I, by previous arrangement, lobbed
ours over as far as ever we could to the left, landing quite near the
beginning of the sap, and so getting the Boches who were only just
leaving their own fire trench. Then I laid my hand on the draper to
prevent his throwing, and Slade and the other three gave their last
volley, and bolted full pelt for Stinking Sap.
There was no bucking at all in the part of the sap near us. The Boches
there wouldn't trouble anyone any more, I fancy. But a few seconds
after Slade disappeared, we heard a fresh lot start on their way down
the sap from their fire trench. We gave 'em up to about "A hundred
and three" and a half, and then we let 'em have our last two bombs,
well to the left, and ourselves made tracks like greased lightning
for Stinking Sap. The luck held perfectly, and Slade was hauling the
draper in over the parapet of Stinking Sap before a sound came from the
Boches' machine-guns. And then, by Gad! they opened on us. They holed
my oilskin coat for me, as I slid in after Ramsay, and spoiled it. I've
jotted it down against 'em and in due course they shall pay. But not
one of my crowd got a scratch, and we reckon to have accounted for at
the very least twenty Boches, maybe double that--a most splendid lark.
What makes "B" Company rather mad is that, strictly speaking, this
new Boche sap is a shade nearer their line than ours. The C.O. came
up to look at it this morning, on the strength of our O.C.'s morning
situation report, and was most awfully nice to me about it. He said we
did well to wait for the Boches' coming down from their line after our
first scoop, and that plans must be made to fit circumstances, and not
held to be ends in themselves, and all that kind of thing--initiative,
you know, and so on--very nice indeed he was. And the best of it is our
artillery has registered on that sap this morning, and this afternoon
is just about going to blow it across the Rhine. So altogether "A"
Company is feeling pretty good, if you please, and has its tail well
up. So has your
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
OVER THE PARAPET
We are back again in billets, but so close to the line this time that
it's more like being in support trenches. That is to say, one hears
all the firing, and knows just what is happening in the line all the
time. Also, we do carrying fatigues in the trenches at night. Still,
it's billets, and not bad. One can get a bath, and one can sleep dry.
I must tell you about billets sometime. At the moment the letter from
you lying in front of me contains clear orders. I am to tell you what
patrolling is--quite a big order.
Well, there are many different kinds of patrols, you know, but so far
as we are concerned, here in trenches, they boil down to two sorts:
observation patrols and fighting patrols, such as bombing and raiding
parties. It's all night work, of course, since one cannot do anything
over the parapet by day without getting shot; anything, that is, except
a regular attack preceded by bombardment of the Boche lines. On the
whole, I think it's about the most interesting part of our work, and I
think it's safe to say it's a part in which our fellows can run rings
round the Boches. In masses (well primed with rum; ether and oxygen,
too, they say) the Boche can do great things. He will advance, as it
were blindly, in the face of any kind of fire you like; even the kind
that accounts for sixty or seventy per cent. of him in a hundred yards.
But when he comes to act as an individual, or in little groups, as in
patrolling--well, we don't think much of him. We think our worst is
better than his best in all that sort of work. I'm perfectly certain
that, man for man, the British and French troops are more formidable,
harder to beat, better men all round, than the Boche.
The first kind of patrol I mentioned--observation--is part and parcel
of our everyday routine in the firing line. This kind goes out every
night, and often several times during the night, from every Company.
Its main objective is observation: to get any information it can about
the doings of the Hun, and to guard our line against surprise moves of
any sort. But, though that's its main object, it does not go unarmed,
of course, and, naturally, will not refuse a scrap if the chance
comes. But it differs from a bombing or raiding patrol in that it does
not go out for the purpose of fighting, and as a rule is not strong,
numerically; usually not more than about half a dozen in the party.
In some Companies observation patrols are often sent out under a good
N.C.O. and no officer. We make a point of sending an officer always;
not that we can't trust our N.C.O.'s; they're all right; but we talked
it over, and decided we would rather one of us always went. As I said,
it's interesting work, and work with possibilities of distinction in
it, and we're all pretty keen on it. Every Company in the Battalion is.
(Boche patrols, one gathers, hardly ever include an officer.)
With us, it is decided during the afternoon just what we are going
to do that night in the patrol line, and the officer whose turn it is
chooses his own men and N.C.O.'s. And within limits, you know, "the
Peacemaker" lets us work out our own plans pretty much as we like,
providing there's no special thing he wants done. It often happens, you
see, that during daylight the sentries or the officer on duty have been
able to make out with glasses some signs of work being done at night by
the Boche, in his front line, or in a sap or a communication trench.
Then that night it will be the job of the patrols to investigate that
part of the opposite line very carefully. Perhaps half a dozen Boches
will be found working somewhere where our patrol can wipe 'em out by
lobbing a few bombs among 'em. That's a bit of real jam for the patrol.
Or, again, they may observe something quite big: fifty to a hundred
Boches carrying material and building an emplacement, or something of
that kind. Then it will be worth while to get back quickly, having got
an exact bearing on the spot, and warn the O.C. Company. He may choose
to turn a couple of machine-guns loose suddenly on that spot, or he may
find it better to telephone to Battalion Headquarters and let them know
about it, so that, if they like, they can get our "heavies" turned on,
and liven the Boche job up with a good shower of H.E., to smash the
work, after a few rounds of shrap. to lay out the workers.
Then, again, if you all keep your eyes jolly well skinned, there's a
sporting chance of getting another kind of luck. You may spot a Boche
patrol while you're crawling about in No Man's Land. "B" Company had
the luck to do that three nights ago, and our fellows are so envious
now they all want to be patrolling at once; it's as much as one can
do to keep them in the trench. They're simply aching to catch a Boche
patrol out, and put the wind up "B." You see "B" lost two out of a
Boche patrol of six; killing three and taking one prisoner. "A" can't
say anything about it, of course, because we've not had the luck yet to
see a Boche patrol. But God help its members when we do, for I assure
you our fellows would rather die half a dozen times over than fail to
wipe "B's" eye. It's the way they happen to be built. They don't wish
the Boche any particular harm, but if they can get within sight of a
Boche patrol, that patrol has just got to be scuppered without any
possible chance of a couple getting clear. The performance of "B" has
just got to be beaten, and soon.
Honestly, it isn't easy to hold these chaps back. The observation
patrol I was out with the night before we came out of the trenches
really needed holding. There were no Boche patrols for them to scupper,
and just to humour the beggars I kept 'em out nearly an hour longer
than I had any right to; and then, if you'll believe me, they were so
disappointed at having to head back with nothing in the bag, so to say,
that the Corporal was deputed to beg my permission for a little raid on
the Huns' front trench. And there were just five of us, all told; our
only weapons knobkerries and two bombs each, and my revolver and dagger.
By the way, the survivor of the Hun patrol that "B" rounded up was
not the first prisoner taken by the Battalion. No; we had that honour
nearly a week ago. A queer episode that, on our second night in. There
was a bit of line on our extreme right which was neither for use nor
ornament; a horrible place. It had been all blown in by trench mortars
and oil-cans, and hardly had a strand of unbroken wire in front of it.
(You may be sure it's in different shape now. We worked at it for two
nights in succession, and made a good job of it.) Well, it was so bad
for fifty yards or so that sentries could not occupy it properly; no
fire-step left, and no cover worth speaking of. Taffy Morgan was nosing
about in front of this bit just after dark, out beyond where the wire
had been, marking places for new entanglements, when he spotted a big
Boche patrol making slowly up that way from their front. They were
fifteen or twenty strong.
Taffy lay very low, and crawled back into our line without being
seen. Then he raced down the trench for his pet machine-gun--a Lewis,
you know--and got it along there with a Corporal and a couple of
machine-gunners in rather less than no time. By then the messenger
he had sent off had got back with "the Peacemaker" and myself and
the Sergeant-Major. We all kept as quiet as mice till we were able
to make out the movement of the Boche patrol. We let them get fairly
close--thirty or forty yards--and then let blaze at 'em, firing just as
low as we could.
I suppose we gave 'em about four hundred rounds. We heard a bit of
moaning after "the Peacemaker" gave the word to cease fire, and then,
to our amazement, a Hun talking, apparently to another Boche, telling
him to come on, and calling him some kind of a bad hat. I tell you, it
was queer to listen to. The Boche who was doing the talking appeared
to have worked a good bit down to the left of the bunch we had fired
at, and had evidently got into our wire. We could hear him floundering
among the tin cans.
"Don't fire," said "the Peacemaker." "We'll maybe get this chap
alive." And, sure enough, the Boche began singing out to us now, asking
first of all whether we were Prussian, and then trying a few phrases in
French, including a continuously repeated: "Je suis fatigué!"
Most extraordinary it was. "The Peacemaker" couldn't tell him we were
Prussian, but he kept inviting the fellow to come in, and telling him
we wouldn't hurt him. Finally I took a man out and lugged the chap in
out of the wire myself. We got tired of his floundering, and I guess he
must have been tired of it too, for he was pretty badly cut by it. He
had no rifle; nothing but a dagger; and the moment I got him into our
trench he began catting all over the place; most deadly sick he was.
We led him off down the trench to the S.M.'s dug-out and gave him a
drink of tea, and washed the wire cuts on his face and hands. He was a
poor starveling-looking kind of a chap; a bank clerk from Heidelberg,
as it turned out afterwards, and a Corporal. He told us he'd had
nothing but rum, but we thought him under the influence of some drug;
some more potent form of Dutch courage, such as the Huns use before
leaving their trenches. Our M.O. told us afterwards he was very
poorly nourished. We blindfolded him and took him down to Battalion
Headquarters, and from there he would be sent on to the Brigade. We
never knew if they got any useful information out of him; but he was
the Battalion's first prisoner. The other Boches we got in that night
were dead. That burst of M.G. fire had laid them out pretty thoroughly,
nine of 'em; and a small patrol we kept out there wounded three or four
more who came much later--I suppose to look for their own wounded.
There's a creepy kind of excitement about patrol work which makes it
fascinating. If there's any light at all, you never know who's drawing
a bead on you. If there's no light, you never know what you're going to
bump into at the next step. It's very largely hands-and-knees' work,
and our chaps just revel in it. My first, as you know, landed me in the
Boche trenches; and that's by no means a very uncommon thing either,
though it ought never to happen if you have a good luminous-faced
compass and the sense to refer to it often enough. My second patrol was
a bit more successful. I'll tell you about that next time. Meanwhile,
I hope what I've said will make you fancy you know roughly what patrol
work is, though, to be sure, I feel I haven't given you the real thing
the way Taffy could if he set out to write about it. He could write it
almost better perhaps than he could do it. He's a wee bit too jerky and
impulsive, too much strung up rather, for patrol work. My thick-headed
sort of plodding is all right on patrol; suits the men first-rate. I
suppose it kind of checks the excitement and keeps it within bounds.
But you mark my words, our fellows will get a Boche patrol before long,
and when they do I'll wager they won't lose any of 'em.
We're going to play a team of "B" Company at football to-morrow
afternoon, if the Boche doesn't happen to be running an artillery
strafe. We play alongside the cemetery, and for some unknown reason the
Boche gunners seem to be everlastingly ranging on it, as though they
wanted to keep our dead from resting. We're all as fit and jolly as can
be, especially your
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
THE NIGHT PATROL
Here in billets the amount of letter-writing the men do is something
appalling--for the officers who have to censor their letters. As you
know, our training in England included some time in four different
parts of the country, and our fellows have sweethearts in each place.
And they seem to get parcels from most of 'em, too. Then there are the
home letters. They all describe their writers as being "in the pink,"
and getting on "champion," as, I believe, I told you before.
My billet--or, rather, our billet, for all "A" Company officers
are under the one roof here--is in the church house, and there's a
candlestick three feet high in the bedroom I share with Taffy. There's
no glass in the windows, and the roof at one end has had a shell
through it, and so the room gets a bit swampy. Otherwise, the place
is all right. Our own batteries near by shake it up at times, and
the shell-holes, in the road outside show it's had some very narrow
squeaks; but neither it nor the church has suffered very much, though
they stand well up on a hill, less than half a mile from our support
line of trenches, which the Battalion billeted here mans in event of
alarm--gas attack, you know, or anything of that sort. So while we're
here we sleep fully equipped at night. But in our next week out, at the
village farther back, we are more luxurious, and undress of a night.
But I promised to tell you about that second patrol of mine. We were
greatly interested in some kind of an erection we could see just behind
the Boche front line on our left. All we could see was sand-bags;
but, somehow, it looked too big and massive for a mere machine-gun
emplacement, and we were all most anxious to find out what it could be.
So "the Peacemaker" agreed that I should take a patrol that night and
try to investigate. This was the first patrol we sent out as a Company
in the line on our own. My first was when we were in with another
Company for instruction, you know, and they apparently had not noticed
this sand-bag structure. At all events, they made no report to "the
Peacemaker" about it when we took over.
The moon was not due to rise till about eleven that night, so I
decided to go out at nine. The Company Sergeant-Major asked if he
could come, so I arranged to take him and one Platoon scout from each
Platoon. They had none of them been out as yet, and we wanted them to
have practice. Getting out into No Man's Land marks a distinct epoch
in a man's training for trench warfare, you know. If it happens that
he has some considerable time in trenches without ever going over the
parapet, he's apt to be jumpy when he does get out. I fancy that must
be one reason why the Boches make such a poor show in the matter of
individual effort of an aggressive sort. They're so trench-bound that
their men seem no use out of trenches, except in massed formation.
Don't make any mistake about it; there's some excuse for a man
being jumpy over the parapet when he's never had a chance of getting
accustomed to it. That's why I think our O.C. is very wise in the way
he tries to give all the men a turn at work over the parapet, wiring,
patrolling, improving saps, and what not: because it's a pretty eerie
business until you get used to it. Behind our line you have graves
and crosses, and comparatively friendly things of all kinds--rubbish,
you know, and oddments discarded by fellow humans no longer ago
than a matter of hours. But out in No Man's Land, of course, the
dominant factor is the swift, death-dealing bullet, and the endless
mass of barbed-wire entanglements which divides Boches from Britons
and Frenchmen for so many hundreds of miles. There are plenty of
dead things out there, but, barring the rats, when you get any other
movement in No Man's Land you may reckon it's enemy movement: creeping
men with bombs and daggers, who may have been stalking you or may not
have seen you. But it wouldn't do to reckon much on anyone's not having
seen you, because if there's one place in the world in which every
man's ears and eyes are apt to be jolly well open it's out there in the
slimy darkness of No Man's Land.
You may very well chance to stick your hand in the upturned face of
a far-gone corpse, as I did my first time out; but if you do so you
mustn't shiver--far less grunt--because shivering may make your oilskin
coat or something else rustle, and draw fire on you and your party.
So a man needs to have his wits about him when he's over the parapet,
and the cooler he keeps and the more deliberate are his movements the
better for all concerned. One needn't loaf, but, on the other hand,
it's rather fatal to hurry, and quite fatal to flurry, especially
when you're crawling among wire with loose strands of it and "giant
gooseberries" of the prickly stuff lying round in all directions on the
ground to catch your hands and knees and hold you up. If you lose your
head or do anything to attract attention, your number's pretty well up.
But, on the other hand, if you keep perfectly cool and steady, making
no sound whatever happens, and lying perfectly flat and still while
Boche flares are up or their machine-guns are trying to locate you,
it's surprising how very difficult it is for the Hun to get you, and
what an excellent chance you have of returning to your own line with a
whole skin.
I had an exact compass bearing on the spot we wanted to investigate,
taken from the sap on our left from which we were starting. "The
Peacemaker" ran his own hands over the men of the party before we
climbed out, to make sure everyone had remembered to leave all papers
and things of that sort behind. (One goes pretty well stripped for
these jobs, to avoid anything useful falling perchance into Boche
hands.) We each carried a couple of bombs, the men had knobkerries, and
I had revolver and dagger, to be on the safe side. But we were out for
information, not scrapping.
It was beautifully dark, and, starting from a sap-head, clear of our
own wire, we crossed the open very quickly, hardly so much as stooping,
till we were close to the Boche wire, when a burst of machine-gun fire
from them sent us to ground. The Companies on each flank in our line
had been warned we were out. This is always done to prevent our own men
firing at us. Such little fire as was coming from our line was high,
and destined for the Boche support lines and communications; nothing to
hurt us.
Now, when we began crawling through the Boche wire I made the sort
of mistake one does make until experience teaches. I occupied myself
far too much with what was under my nose, and too little with what lay
ahead--and too little with my compass. To be sure, there's a good deal
in the Boche wire which rather forces itself upon the attention of a
man creeping through it on hands and knees. The gooseberries and loose
strands are the devil. Still, it is essential to keep an eye on the
compass, and to look ahead, as well as on the ground under one's nose,
lest you over-shoot your mark or drop off diagonally to one side or the
other of it. I know a good deal better now. But one has no business to
make even one mistake, if one's a "Temporary Officer and Gentleman,"
because one's men have been taught to follow and trust one absolutely,
and it's hardly ever only one's own safety that's at stake.
Suddenly I ran my face against the side of a "giant gooseberry" with
peculiarly virulent prongs, and in that moment a bullet whizzed low
over my head, and--here's the point--the bolt of the rifle from which
that bullet came was pulled back and jammed home for the next shot--as
it seemed right in my ear. We all lay perfectly flat and still. I could
feel the Sergeant-Major's elbow just touching my left hip. Very slowly
and quietly I raised my head enough to look round the side of that
"giant gooseberry," and instinct made me look over my right shoulder.
We were less than ten paces from the Boche parapet. The great, jagged
black parados, like a mountain range on a theatre drop scene, hung
right over my shoulder against a sky which seemed now to have a most
deadly amount of light in it. I was lying almost in a line with it,
instead of at right angles to it. Just then, the sentry who had fired
gave a little cough to clear his throat. It seemed he was actually with
us. Then he fired again. I wondered if he had a bead on the back of my
head. He was not directly opposite us, but a dozen paces or so along
the line.
Now, by the queer twisty feeling that went down my spine when my eyes
first lighted on that grim black line of parados just over my shoulder,
I guessed how my men might be feeling. "Little blame to them if they
show some panic," thinks I. I turned my face left, so as to look down
at the Sergeant-Major's over my left shoulder. He'd seen that towering
parados against the sky, and heard that sentry's cough and the jamming
home of his rifle bolt. By twisting my head I brought my face close to
the S.M.'s, and could see that he fancied himself looking right into
his own end. I had to think quick. I know that man's mind like the palm
of my hand, and I now know his splendid type: the English ex-N.C.O. of
Marines, with later service in the Metropolitan Police--a magnificent
blend. I also know the wonderful strength of his influence over the
men, to whom he is experienced military professionalism, expertness
incarnate. At present he felt we had come upon disaster.
"My Gawd, sir!" he breathed at me. "Why, we're on top of 'em!"
That was where I thought quick, and did a broad grin as I whispered to
him: "Pretty good for a start--a damn fine place, Sergeant-Major. But
we'll manage to get a bit nearer before we leave 'em, won't we?"
It worked like a charm, and I thanked God for the fine type he
represents. It was as though his mind was all lighted up, and I
could see the thoughts at work in it. "Oh, come! so it's all right,
after all. My officer's quite pleased. He knew all about it and it's
just what he wanted; so that's all right." These were the thoughts.
And from that moment the S.M. began to regard the whole thing as a
rather creditable lark, though the pit of his stomach had felt queer,
as well it might, for a moment. And the wonderful thing was--there
must be something in telepathy, you know--that this change seemed to
communicate itself almost instantly to the men--bless their simple
souls!--crouched round about behind. I'd no time to think of the
grimness of it, after that. A kind of heat seemed to spread all over me
from inside, and I had been cold. I think a mother must feel like that
when danger threatens her kiddies. The thought in my mind was: "I've
brought these fellows here in carelessness. I'll get 'em back with
whole skins or I'll die at it."
I never had any Hymn of Hate feeling in my life, but I think I'd have
torn half a dozen Boches in pieces with my hands before I'd have let
'em get at any of those chaps of mine that night.