night I had an observation patrol out, and having no special job on,
decided to devote our time to the examination of the Boche wire--their
entanglements, you know, in the sector opposite our particular line.
I had only two men with me: one of my own Platoon scouts and a lad
named Hankin, of whom I have great hopes as a sniper. He's in my No.
3 Section, and a very safe and pretty shot with a rifle, especially
at long ranges. He'd never been on patrol and was most anxious to go,
and to have an opportunity of looking at the Boche line, to verify his
suspicions regarding certain holes in the ground which he thought their
snipers used. Our patrol had two interesting results, for one of which
we have to thank Hankin's intelligence. The other was a bit of luck.
The reason I took such a small patrol was that the aim was observation
pure and simple; not strafing; and the men were more than usually
tired, and had a lot of parapet repair work which had to be put through
before daylight.
It was about a quarter to one in the morning when we went out, there
having been too much moonlight before then. Hankin had prepared a
regular chart of the Boche line from his own observations from his
sniping post; quite a clever little map it is, showing clearly his
suspected sniping shelters, of which there are four. We drew a blank
in the first two of these, and for the third had to tack back from the
line of the Boche wire, towards our own, along the side of an old sap,
all torn to bits and broken in with shell fire. Hankin felt certain he
had seen the flash of rifles from this hole; but I thought it was too
near our own wire to attract any Boche sniper for regular use.
I need hardly say that on a job of this sort one moves very slowly,
and uses the utmost possible precaution to prevent noise. It was
now absolutely dark, the moon having gone down and the sky being
much overcast. But for my luminous-faced compass (which one consults
under one's coat flap to prevent it from showing) we should have been
helpless. As it was, on the bearings I worked out before starting, we
steered comfortably and fairly accurately.
All of a sudden came a shock, a rifle fired, as it seemed, under our
noses, actually from about twenty-five paces ahead on the track we were
making.
"That's him, sir," breathed Hankin in my right ear.
I looked at the compass. The shot came from dead on the spot where
Hankin's third hole should be; the one we were making for then.
"How about a little bomb for him, sir?" whispered the scout on my left.
But I shook my head. Too much like looking for a needle in a bundle of
hay, and too much like asking the Boche for machine-gun fire. It was
fair to assume the Boche sniper who fired that shot would be facing our
trenches; the same direction in which we were facing at that moment,
since we were working back from the German wire towards our own. I
pushed my lips close up to Hankin's ear and whispered: "We'll try
stalking him." Hankin nodded, quite pleased.
Then I whispered to the scout to follow us very, very carefully, and
not too closely. I didn't want him to lose touch, but, for the sake
of quietness, one would sooner, of course, go alone. We kept about
six paces between us laterally, Hankin and myself, and we advanced by
inches.
I must say I should have been grateful for a shade more light, or less
inky blackness. The edge of that sniper's hole was not sloping, but
sheer; and, crawling slowly along, I struck my right hand clean over
it into nothingness, letting my chest down with an audible bump. Right
before me then I heard a man's body swing round on the mud, and the
sniper let out some kind of a German exclamation which was a sort of
squeal. It was, really, much more like some wild animal's cry than
anything human. I had to chance it then. The sound was so amazingly
close. I couldn't see him, but-- And when I sprang, the thing my hands
gripped on first was not the beggar's windpipe or shoulders, as I had
hoped, but his rifle, carried in his left hand on his left side.
It was rather like tom-cats coming to blows. I swear he spat. As you
know, I'm rather heavy, and I think my spring, slightly to his left,
knocked him off his balance. He hadn't any chance. But, though I got
his left wrist, and covered his mouth with my chest, I was a bit uneasy
about his right hand, which for the moment I couldn't find. Lucky for
me he hadn't got a dagger in it, or he might have ripped me open. But
Hankin pretty soon found his right hand, and then we hauled him up to
his feet. I passed his rifle to the scout, and we just marched him
along the front of our wire to Stinking Sap, and so into our own front
trench; Hankin holding one of his arms, I taking the other, and the
scout coming behind with the muzzle of the man's own rifle in the small
of his back. There was no need to crawl, the night being as black as
your hat; and in three or four minutes we had that sniper in front of
"the Peacemaker" in the Company dug-out.
It was neat, wasn't it? And all thanks to the ingenious Hankin's
careful observations and his chart. He'll get his first stripe for
that, and very soon have another to keep it company, or I'm much
mistaken. "The Peacemaker" was delighted, and wrote a full report of
the capture to be sent down to Headquarters with the prisoner. Snipers
are worth capturing, you know, and this looked like an intelligent chap
whose cross-examination might be useful to our Brass-hats.
Queer thing about this sniper, he spoke English almost like a native.
We are not allowed to examine prisoners on our own account. All that's
done by the powers behind the line. But this fellow volunteered a
little talk while we were getting the report made out. He was quite
satisfied when he realised we were not going to harm him in any way,
but it was perfectly clear he had expected to be done in. You'd
have thought he would have known better. He'd spent nine years in
London, part of the time a waiter, and later a clerk. He had lived at
Kennington, and then in lodgings on Brixton Hill, I'll trouble you.
Extraordinary, isn't it? He'd been told that London was practically
in ruins, and that the Zepps had made life there impossible. He also
thought that we in France were completely cut off from England, the
Channel being in the hands of the German Navy, and England isolated
and rapidly starving! I gather the Boches in the fighting line have no
notion at all of the real facts of the war.
Well, having been so far successful, we decided to resume our patrol,
the main purpose of which--examination of the Boche wire--hadn't been
touched yet. So off we went again down Stinking Sap; and I could see
that Hankin and Green, the scout, bore themselves as victors, with
something of the swank of the old campaigner and hero of a thousand
patrols. A great asset, mind you, is a reasonable amount of swank.
These two had not been out before this night, but already they climbed
over the parapet and moved about in No Man's Land with a real and
complete absence of the slightest hint of nervousness.
Now I must cut this short because I have to go an errand for "the
Peacemaker," to have a little talk with a Battery Commander. We had a
pretty good prowl up and down the Boche wire, and made an interesting
discovery on the extreme left of our sector. There was a shade more
light then; not from the moon, of course, but from stars; the sky
having become less overcast. I ran my nose right up against a miniature
sign-post; a nice little thing, with feathers stuck in cracks near the
top of it, presumably to give Boche patrols their bearings. I should
have liked to take it away as a souvenir, but I didn't want to arouse
Hun suspicions, so left it. The interesting thing was that this little
sign-post--about eighteen inches high, planted among the front wire
stakes--pointed the way in to the Boche trenches by an S-shaped lane
through their wire entanglements; so shaped, of course, as to prevent
it from being easily seen from our line.
We crawled along this lane a bit, far enough to make sure that it was
a clear fairway into the Boche front trench. Then I got a careful
bearing, which I subsequently verified half a dozen times; and we made
our way back to Stinking Sap. I haven't time to tell you of our cunning
plan about this discovery. That's what I'm to see the Battery Commander
about. But if we can make the arrangement we want to make with the
gunners, we'll bring off a nice little bombing raid to-night, and I'll
let you know all about it in my next letter. Meanwhile I must scurry
off, or I shall miss the Battery Commander in his rounds, and there
will be a telling-off for your
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
AN ARTFUL STUNT
Out of trenches again. I wanted to write you yesterday to tell you
about the bombing raid of our last night in; but we had a full day, and
were not relieved till late evening; so I got no chance of writing till
this afternoon. But I can tell you we came out with our tails well up
this time, and "A" Company putting on more side than ever. I dare say
"D" Company, our closest rivals, will put up something pretty startling
when we go in again. They're very determined to beat our record in
every kind of strafing, and I'm bound to say they do put up some good
shows. They've two more officers than we have now, and the Boche has
discovered that they are very much out for business.
Whether we get Bavarians or Prussians opposite us it makes small odds;
they've no earthly chance of a quiet time while we're in the line. The
public at home read about the big things, and I suppose when they read
that "The rest of the Front was quiet," they're inclined to wonder how
we put our time in. Ah, well! the "quiet" of the dispatches wouldn't
exactly suit a conscientious objector, I can assure you. It's a kind of
"quiet" that keeps Master Boche pretty thoroughly on the hop. But on
the whole, I'm rather glad the dispatches are like that. I'd be sorry
to see 'em make a song and dance about these little affairs of ours.
Only, don't you run away with the idea that when you read "Remainder
of the Front quiet," it means the Boche was being left alone; for he
isn't, not by long odds.
You will remember that opposite our extreme left I had discovered an
S-shaped opening leading through the barbed wire to the Boche front
line, so cut, no doubt, for the convenience of their patrols at night.
We decided that we would make use of that opening for a bombing raid
on our last night in. Now, you must understand that one of the chief
uses of the barbed-wire entanglements is to keep off the prowling
bomber. The entanglements extend to, say, forty to sixty paces from
the trench. You cannot hope to make accurate practice in bomb-throwing
at a distance of more than thirty yards. Consequently, as I explained
before, to shy bombs into the average trench the bomber must worry his
way through twenty paces or so of barbed-wire entanglements. It is very
difficult to do that without attracting the attention of sentries, and
impossible to do it quickly with or without noise. Hence you perceive
the unpleasant predicament of the bomber when he has heaved his first
bomb. He has offered himself as a target to the Boche machine-guns and
rifles at a moment when he is in the midst of a maze of barbed wire,
from which he can only hope to retreat slowly and with difficulty.
Then why not cut a lane through the Boche wire by means of shells, just
before dark, and use that to bomb from after dark? Excellent. Only, if
you were the Boche and we cut a lane through your wire one evening just
before dark, wouldn't you train a machine-gun or two on that opening so
that you could sweep it with fire at any moment you wished during the
night; and wouldn't you have a dozen extra rifles with keen eyes behind
'em trained on the same spot; and wouldn't you be apt to welcome that
nice little lane as a trap in which you could butcher English Tommies
like sitting pheasants? Wouldn't you now?
Well, my business with the Battery Commander was to get on his right
side and induce him to expend a certain number of rounds from his dear
little guns that afternoon in cutting a nice line through the Boche
entanglements opposite the extreme right of our line. It happened that,
without interfering with the sort of sinking fund process by which the
lords of the guns build up their precious reserves of ammunition, this
particular lord was in a position to let us have a few rounds.
Of course, our attitude towards the gunners is not always strictly
reasonable, you know. We are for ever wanting them to spend ammunition,
while their obvious duty is to accumulate ammunition greedily and all
the time against the hours of real need, so that when these hours come
they may simply let everything rip--take the lid right off. However,
for reasons of their own, apart from mine, it happened fortunately that
the gunners were not at all averse from giving that bit of the Boche
line a mild pounding; and, accordingly, they promised us a nice neat
lane on the extreme right by nightfall.
We said nothing about the beautiful S-shaped lane on the extreme
left, which Master Boche thought was known only to himself. Observe
our extreme artfulness. We proceeded to train a grenade rifle on the
extreme right, likewise a machine-gun. Then we proceeded to tell off
our best bombers, and overhaul carefully a good supply of hand-grenades
for use in the S-shaped opening on our extreme left.
Until midnight there was a certain amount of moonlight, and for several
hours we kept the Boche very busy on our extreme right, where, with
a trifling expenditure of ammunition, the guns had cut a lane for us
through his barbed wire. I've no doubt at all that Fritz had several
machine-guns concentrated on that spot, and a bunch of rifle-men too.
He made up his mind he would have the English on toast in that lane,
and we encouraged him to think so.
You know, at night-time it is not very easy to tell the difference
between the explosion of a hand-grenade and that of a rifle-grenade.
But whereas the hand-grenade could only be lobbed in from among the
wire, the rifle-grenade could easily be sent over from our trench at
that particular spot on our right. So we sent 'em over at all kinds
of confusing intervals. And then, when Boche opened machine-gun fire
across the lane, under the impression that our bombers were at work
there, we replied with bursts of machine-gun fire on his parapet
opposite the lane, thereby, I make no doubt, getting a certain number
of heads. It is certain they would be looking out, and equally certain
they would not be expecting fire from our trenches, when they thought
we had our own bombers out there.
It was an attractive game, and we kept it going till nearly midnight.
Then we stopped dead, leaving them to suppose we had given up hope of
overcoming their watchfulness. We arranged to reopen the ball at 1.30
A.M. precisely, with rifle-grenades and machine-gun fire as might prove
suitable, but with no end of a row in any case.
At one o'clock I started from Stinking Sap, on our extreme left, with
twelve of our best bombers, each carrying an apronful of bombs. There
wasn't a glimmer of any kind of light. We made direct for the S-shaped
opening, and lay down outside the wire there. In our own trench, before
starting, we had made all arrangements. I had six men on either side
of me, and each man knew precisely what his particular job was. "The
Peacemaker" never tires of insisting on that principle, and, of course,
he is right. Nothing is any good unless it is worked out beforehand so
that each man knows exactly his job, and concentrates on that without
reference to anyone else, or any hanging about waiting instructions.
At 1.20 we began crawling down the S-shaped opening in our proper
order. At 1.30 the first rifle-grenade ripped over from the extreme
right of our line. Others followed in quick succession, and on the
report of the sixth we jumped to our feet and ran forward, extending
to right and left from me as we reached the inside of the wire, and
chucking our first bombs--thirteen of 'em--as we got into position. It
was so close there was no possibility of missing, and I can tell you
thirteen bombs make some show when they all explode beautifully right
inside a trench a few yards in front of you.
Then we all scrambled over the parapet down into the trench over a
front of, say, thirty paces. The six men on my right hand at once
turned to their right, and those on my left to their left. It worked
splendidly. Each party travelled along the trench as quickly as it
could, bombing over each traverse before rounding it. The row was
terrific.
In that order each party went along six successive bays of the trench.
Then immediately they began to reverse the process, travelling more
slowly this time and bombing more thoroughly. They were working back
on their centre now, you understand, still bombing outward, of course.
We had the luck to strike a splendid piece of trench with no fewer
than three important dug-outs in it, and we made a shambles of each of
them. It was wildly exciting while it lasted, but I suppose we were not
more than four or five minutes in the trench. We exploded thirty-two
bombs during those few minutes, every single one of them with good
effect; and when we scrambled out into the S-shaped opening again we
took with us an undamaged Boche machine-gun and four prisoners, one of
them wounded and three unwounded. We killed nine men in the trench, and
a good round number in the three dug-outs. I had a bunch of maps and
papers from the first of those dug-outs. And we didn't improve their
trench or the dug-outs. Thirty-two bombs make a difference.
The machine-gun hampered us a bit, but I can tell you we made pretty
good time getting across to Stinking Sap. The Boches were hopelessly
confused by the whole business, and while we were crossing to the
extreme left of our own line they were wildly blazing at our extreme
right and pouring flares and machine-gun fire over the lane through
their wire. Naturally, nobody was in the least exposed on our right,
except perhaps the man operating the machine-gun, which probably did
good execution among Boche observers of that neat little lane our
artillery had cut for us.
It was a delightful show and cost us nothing in casualties, except
two men very slightly wounded, one in the right foot and the other in
the left hand and arm from our own bomb splinters. But, as our good
old bombing Sergeant said, it "fairly put the wind up them bloomin'
sauer-krauters." Incidentally, and owing far more to the fine behaviour
of the men than to anything I did, it earned a lot of bouquets from
different quarters for your
"_Temporary Gentleman_."
P.S.--Next day's report as served up to you and the public in the
newspapers at home would, of course, and rightly enough no doubt,
include our sector in the "remainder of the Front," which was "quiet."
Or we might be included in a two-line phrase about "minor activities,"
or "patrols were active on various points of the line"--as they
certainly are all the time.
THE SPIRIT OF THE MEN
The parcels from W----'s arrived all safe and sound, thanks to your
careful arrangements, and we are, in consequence, living in the lap
of luxury. The tinned fruit is specially appreciated, and very good
for us, I've no doubt. By the way, you will be glad to know that the
boiler-maker's suit in one piece of water-proofed canvas is a huge
success. I wore it on that last bombing raid. For patrol work, or
wiring, for anything over the parapet, and in the trench, too, at
night-time, for instance, I don't think there's anything to beat it.
There's nothing to catch or get in one's way, and it's a great joy to
keep one's ordinary clothes clean and decent. On patrol it's better
than oilskin, because it's silent--doesn't rustle.
I dare say you've heard that phrase--I forget whose it is--about the
backbone of the Army being the non-commissioned man. I suspect it was
all right when it was written, and goodness knows, there's not much
the matter with the non-commissioned man to-day. Only, there isn't the
difference that there was between the N.C.O. and the "other ranks"--the
men. The N.C.O. isn't the separate type he was, because the N.C.O. of
to-day is so often the man of yesterday; promotion having necessarily
been rapid in the New Army. We had to make our own N.C.O.'s from the
start. They're all backbone, now, men and N.C.O.'s alike. And the
officers are quite all right, thank you, too. I doubt whether officers
in any Army have ever worked harder than the officers of our New
Army--the "Temporary Gentlemen," you know--are working to-day. They
have had to work hard. Couldn't leave it to N.C.O.'s, you see, because,
apart from anything else, they've had to make the N.C.O.'s out of
privates; teach 'em their job. So we're all backbone together.
And when you hear some fellow saying "The men are splendid," you
need not think he's just paying a conventional tribute or echoing a
stereotyped kind of praise. It's true; "true as death," as Harry Lauder
used to sing; it's as true as anything I know. It's Gospel truth. The
men are absolutely and all the time splendid.
I'm not an emotional sort of a chap, and I'm sure before the war I
never gave a thought to such things; but, really, there is something
incurably and ineradicably fine about the rough average Englishman, who
has no surface graces at all. You know the kind I mean. The decency of
him is something in his grain. It stands any test you like to apply.
It's the same colour all the way through. I'm not emotional; but I
don't mind telling you, strictly between ourselves, that since I've
been out here in trenches I've had the water forced into my eyes, not
once, but a dozen times, from sheer admiration and respect, by the
action of rough, rude chaps whom you'd never waste a second glance on
in the streets of London; men who, so far from being exceptional, are
typical through and through; just the common, low-down street average.
That's the rough, rude, foul-mouthed kind, with no manners at all,
and many ways that you hate. But I tell you, under the strain and
stress of this savage existence he shows up for what he really is,
under his rough, ugly hide: he's jewel all through without an ounce of
dirty Boche meanness or cruelty in his whole carcass. You may hate his
manners if you like but you can't help loving him; you simply can't
help it if you work alongside of him in the trenches in face of the
enemy.
And that's not the only type we've got that makes you want to take
your hat off to Tommy, and that puts a real respect, which perhaps the
civilian doesn't understand, into your salutes. (It's only silly puppy
boys, or officers who've never been in the presence of an enemy, or
faced immediate danger with men, who can't be bothered properly and
fully acknowledging salutes. You watch a senior, one who's learned his
lessons in real service, and you'll find nothing grudging or casual
or half-hearted. We get into the French way here, with a hint of the
bow, a real salutation in our salutes.) Even more striking, I sometimes
think, is the sterling stuff we find in types of men in the ranks who
haven't naturally anything rough or hard about them: like my ex-draper
chap, you know, in No. 3 Platoon, Ramsay. We've a number of the same
calibre. He was a pillar of his chapel at home and--of all things--a
draper: a gentle, soft-spoken dealer in ribbons and tape. I told you, I
think, how he fought with a man in his section when he fancied he was
not going to be allowed to go out one night with a bombing party.
You read about calling for volunteers. With our lot it's hopeless to
call for volunteers for a dangerous job. The only thing to do would be
to call for volunteers to stay behind. The other thing's simply a way
of calling out the whole Company; and if it happens to be just half a
dozen you want, that's awkward.
Then there's the matter of grousing--growling among themselves about
this and that. You would be deceived about this until you got to know
them a bit. It's a queer thing, and not easy to explain, but grousing
is one of the passions of their lives, or, perhaps it would be truer
to say, a favourite form of recreation. But, mark you this, only when
everything is going smoothly, and there is nothing real to grumble
about. It would seem to be absolutely forbidden to growl when there's
anything to growl about; a sort of unwritten law which, since we've
been out here, anyhow, is never transgressed.
It's rather fine, this, you know, and very English. So long as there's
a little intermittent grousing going on you can be quite sure of two
things--that there's nothing wrong and that the men are in good spirits
and content. If there's no grousing, it means one of two things--either
that the men are angered about something, in which case they will be
unusually silent, or that we are up against real difficulties and
hardships involving real suffering, in which case there will be a lot
of chaffing and joke-cracking and apparent merriment.