IN THE FRONT LINE
A gruff voice with a broad Lancashire accent asked me who I was. I
replied, "Fifth Canadians." "Aw reet," said he, "the'll be on the
next trick wi' me," meaning I was to be sentry with him. A bunch of
these British Tommies was out at the back filling sandbags, and their
utter contempt for the occasional shots fired at them soon told me
they were regulars. My companion and I soon became great chums, he
explaining to me the various things about trench life.
As we talked, a succession of flares suddenly leapt skyward, the
whole district being lit up by the green flare. The boys filling
sandbags raced for the trench, grabbed their rifles and stood ready
for anything that might come along. The Germans were sending a
perfect fusillade over. It was no attack, however. They had simply
sighted our listening patrols and had commenced firing on them.
My turn for sentry came, and with as little of myself showing as
possible, I peered over the parapet. Of course, looking over the top
is certain death during the day, but darkness makes it possible. It
was a curious feeling I had. I could see nothing but inky blackness
except when a flare went up. I would search the ground in front of
me while the light lasted, then duck as the inevitable snipers took a
pot shot.
For an hour I stood sentry, then was relieved. Five of my companions
and myself huddled into a partially completed dugout in a vain effort
to keep warm. While getting up to the trenches the weight of the
equipment kept us warm, also the heavy traveling, but standing still
in that trench was a different matter. The mud rose to my thighs in
places. Inside the dugout was a small charcoal fire, but very little
heat came from that. The night was bitterly raw and cold, and wet
and muddy as we were, we could not keep from shivering, while I lost
all feeling in my feet. Then we found we could get a certain amount
of heat in the dugout, as the floor was dry, by hugging each other
tightly. While it would be hard to conceive of a bunch of boys
feeling more miserable than we did, yet I have to smile to myself
when I think of those moments. With our arms clasping each other
tightly, leaning over a little charcoal fire, our teeth chattering
like monkeys, almost keeping time to the rattle of the machine guns,
we managed to keep our heads. It is wonderful what men will endure
when sweet life is the price.
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[Illustration: OUR NEST (DUGOUT) IS ON THE RIGHT.
MEALS ARE ANY TIME WHEN ONE IS HUNGRY.]
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It was while trying to keep warm that first night over the little
charcoal fire that I first learned how to handle my bayonet, if I was
ever to be lucky enough to ram it so far into a German belly that I
couldn't pull it out handily. The lesson came from a corporal of the
East Lanks (Lancashires) who was explaining the advantages of the
Lee-Enfield rifle and bayonet over the Ross, and his description was
so realistically vivid that my teeth forgot to chatter with the chill
I had.
"You see," he said, "if you push it in too far, you canna get it oot
again, because this groove on the side o' it makes the 'ole
air-tight; as soon as it is jabbed into a man the suction pulls the
flesh all over it and you canna chuck it oot."
"Well, what would you do if you couldn't get it out and another mug
was making for you?" I asked.
"Why if a twist won't do it, stick your foot on the beggar and wrench
it out; if that won't do it, just pull the trigger a couple of times
and there you are--she will blow out."
"Did you ever have any trouble yourselves?"
"Oh, aye. I remember at Landrecies, in the 'ouse to 'ouse fightin',
my chum, Topper, and me were backed into an alley, with a wall at our
back and a bunch of hulking Prussians pressing us hard. Some more of
the boys fell on them from the side, but Topper and me had all we
could do with the two or three that took a fancy to us. The Pruss
that took a fancy to me raised the butt of his gun to smash me nut
and I took a chance an' lunged. I lunged too 'ard and I 'ad the
trouble I've just been tellin' ye, and in my funk I did just what I
told ye; I twisted--she stuck; I wrenched and tugged--she stuck; and
if I 'adn't fired and got the bloomin' blade free, I wouldn't a' been
'ere a-tellin' you about it."
"And why couldn't I do the same with this one?" I asked, referring to
my Ross bayonet.
"It's too broad at the point. The man that gave ye that dam'd thing
might just as well 'ave passed sentence o' death on yer in a 'and to
'and go."
As a loyal Canadian I was at first inclined to resent the imputation
that our rifle was in any way inferior to anything on earth, but the
corporal's prophecy proved only too true within a short month.
With another spell at sentry the night wore on and at last day began
to break. The morning was foggy and raw, but our hearts were cheered
by the coming up of the rum. Yes, you may be horrified, good people
who read this, but that rum is a God-send, and so you too would think
if you had been standing with feet that you did not feel you
possessed, shivering, plastered with mud and wet to the skin,
standing with rifle ready an hour before dawn, expecting that any
minute you might have to line the trenches and fight for your life.
Under those conditions you may understand why a man needs something
to warm the blood in his veins.
One of the Tommies, my sentry chum, stole out under cover of the fog
and returned with a jar of water. We built a fire (we were allowed
fires as long as the fog lasted) and dined sumptuously on bully beef
and strong tea. One of the regulars, a man about thirty years old,
was alternately cursing the Germans and trying to warm his feet.
Apparently he did not care whether he was hit or not, as he stood at
the back of the trench, his entire body exposed, his chief concern in
life apparently being to get warm.
In his efforts to get his blood circulating he said he would rather
be home again than standing all night in that bloody trough of water
and mud. Something in his tone about home suggested a thought to one
fellow who queried: "You would rather be home again? Is it nearly as
bad as this?"
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[Illustration: WHAT A FIRST-LINE TRENCH LOOKS LIKE.]
This picture is typical of the first line of an European
battle-field. Barbed-wire entanglements are everywhere. Sandbags
are piled high on the top of the trench.
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"Well, to tell you the truth," he said, "I was 'oping I'd 'ave a bit
of a change, don't you know, and a sort o' relief from Lizer's
everlastin' tongue, but, strike me pink, if I wouldn't rather 'ave
'er dear old tongue than this--yes, even on a Saturday night, when
I'd come 'ome drunk and me wages spent."
A rather tough-looking nut who was listening to the dialogue chimed
in contemptuously: "Huh, she jaws yer, does she? Wy that's nuffink.
When I was a-leavin' of Sary Jane I was a-biddin' 'er good-bye, an'
just to make a showin' I tries to kiss 'er, but, pepper me eye-balls,
she lands me a swipe on the jawr an' sez, 'Kiss yer mother; if yer
licks the Germans as bad as you've licked me, you won't be gone
long.'"
After the dissertations on married life by the happy benedicts, our
suicidal friend of the East Lanks, who, reckless as ever, was still
standing on the parados, which is the step in the rear side of the
trench and, therefore, had three-quarters of his body exposed,
suddenly yelled, "There's your Allemands;" our boys jumped to his
side to see our friends on the other side of the street. Crack! and
down fell the Tommy, and, a fraction of a second later, Slaughter,
holding his hand to his jaw, slid forward slowly and convulsively
into the trench. It was my first experience with the reality of war
and my feeling was one of horror, then curiosity at what a stricken
man looked like, then blind fury at everything German.
The King's Own man was lying on his back with a hole through his
cheek, the cheek-bone completely smashed. I hastened over to him,
placed my overcoat under his head and started to bandage his face.
He was badly hurt, but worth a dozen dead men, and was the recipient
of hearty congratulations on his luck in getting such a Blighty
(sufficiently wounded to take him home); it being evident that his
wish to be home with his wife was soon to be realized.
For quite a long time after I had a constant reminder of him and his
wound in the blood-stained condition of my overcoat, which was soaked
through at the time.
My friend, Slaughter, was hit in the side of the neck, the bullet
passing down his back and out of the loin. He had a narrow escape
and it finished his active service there and then. I saw him later
in England on military police duty and looking fine, but he will
never again carry a pack.
To illustrate the peculiar course a bullet will sometimes take, this
will serve as an example. The King's Own man had his left arm
extended pointing to the German lines and the bullet first passed
through the sleeve of his coat, then through to his cheek, came out
at his ear, passed over in an oblique direction, hitting Slaughter in
the neck, passing out at his loin, then through two sandbags and
embedded itself in a third. We dug it out and one of the boys kept
it as a souvenir.
A volley of sulphurous language warned me that my guardian angel,
Morgan, was approaching. He had been farther up the trench
hobnobbing with the fellows, and on hearing of Slaughter's mishap
came to see how he was faring. In reality he had come over to see if
I was safe and sound, but, as usual, concealed his real feelings in a
mask of profanity.
"Well, runt, you're pretty white about the gills, ain't ye? You
should have stayed home with your mother instead of coming out on a
man's job. Poor little fellow! Shall I get you a glass of water?"
"O, go to hell, you black-whiskered devil. Your face is too damned
homely to be spoiled, or I'd smash it with this rifle."
I wasn't feeling any too chipper as it was, but I knew full well that
it was his own peculiar method of displaying his affection for me,
and thus was it answered.
The day passed uneventfully, except for a lively duel between a bunch
of regulars and Canucks and some frisky snipers in a house about
three hundred yards off. None of our boys were hit and they silenced
Fritz for awhile. Every time we moved the snipers would let go, but
we had become wary and no further casualties happened. The day
turned out fairly warm, for which we were very thankful. Toward
half-past four in the afternoon one of the Tommies near me remarked,
"It's time he started the Woodpecker." "Woodpecker! What do you
mean?" "Oh," said he, in a matter of fact tone, "they have a machine
gun laid on the way out and he takes a few sighters to get her right
for us when we go out." "Lord!" thinks I, "more of it."
True enough, about four thirty-five Fritz started the "Woodpecker"
and we could see the bullets striking the corner of an old house,
just where we were to pass that night. You can imagine how I felt
when our relief came and we started our journey out. We stooped as
low as possible, expecting every minute to be opened on, but for some
reason he did not let her speak to us that night. One of the
fellows, however, had three fingers sniped off by a stray bullet
before we were out of the danger zone. It was almost worth the price
to hear the exuberance of his swearing; but he was lucky; it was a
comfortable Blighty for him, and some of us were positively green
with envy.
An amusing thing happened on our way out. We were green at that
time, of course, and we went down the road and across the country as
if we were treading on eggs, our heads between our shoulders and our
backs humped. Morgan walking directly behind me, remarked, "What the
devil are you ducking for? You don't have to duck, you poor little
mite; they can't hit you, you're too small." My retort was big
enough to suit even him.
Presently we met a big bunch of the Lancashire Fusileers going in;
they were striding along, heads up, talking freely to one another as
if out for an ordinary day's work. Immediately we saw their attitude
we determined we were not going to be disgraced. Up went our heads
and I can honestly say every man walked along like a seasoned
veteran. But in order that this record may be true in every detail I
desire to say that it was the hardest effort I ever put forth in my
life.
That finished our baptism in the trench brotherhood. Twenty-four
hours for a start and not many casualties; in the whole battalion we
had two killed and fourteen wounded.
We were taken back to billets in Armentieres and next day we rested
and sported with the people, fell in at dusk and after two days
marching, trench digging, etc., were marched to take our own line of
trenches at a place called Fleur Baix.
In the afternoon before we started, Morgan and I agreeing for once in
our career, set out to have a "time." A few hundred yards from our
lodging was an _estaminet_ kept by two Belgian girls; these girls
were already a by-word in the army for their tremendous physique. We
entered and a lively scene indeed it was. On the floor were Tommies
and Johnnie Canucks dancing to a rag-time tune played by an American
musical box. One of the famous sisters, as well as what few girls
were available, were dancing with the soldiers and some of the boys
were lending an accompaniment by keeping time, hammering the floor
with the wooden shoes worn by the peasantry.
"Hello, runt," from one; "Come in, Shorty," from another, while my
immediate pals set up a howl of welcome. But the acme of my welcome
was reached when the other of the giant sisters, leaning over the
counter of the _estaminet_ and greeting me, "Hello, chick," almost
the only English words she knew, grabbed me with one hand, pulled me
half way over the counter, hoisted me with perfect ease clear over
and sat me gently down on a chair at the back. I was like a baby in
her grasp, and you can imagine the side-splitting roars that ensued.
I felt so humiliated that had I been able I would gladly have smacked
her face, but that was physically out of the question. However, I
made the best of my uncomfortable feelings for the moment and managed
to enjoy myself thoroughly while I was there, because the hospitality
of the sisters knew no bounds; everything they had to eat or drink
was at our disposal; they seemed to be unable to do enough for us.
My round of pleasure that afternoon ended with an exhibition dance by
"Shorty" and the Giantess of Lebezet, as announced by one of the
boys, and the way that girl whirled me off my feet was uproariously
appreciated by the audience, and in my final whirl she wound up by
catching me and hoisting me up in the air and imprinting a sound
smack on my lips. I must hasten to add that this favor from the
perspiring amazon was not at all to my liking, but I couldn't very
well protest for two reasons: First, I was utterly helpless in her
grasp and, second, it might have been poor taste. So I joined in the
laugh.
Much happened during our two days out, but do not think because we
were not in the trenches that we were out of danger. In a quiet time
the safest place sometimes is the very front line, as the enemy is
often no more than twenty yards away and neither side dare shell the
other for fear of hitting their own men.
On our march from Armentieres there came a blinding snow storm,
together with a wind that seemed strong enough to take us off our
feet. It was almost dark and we were compelled to halt, as the
transports coming the opposite way were held up. We sheltered as
best we could, but it was a muddy wet bunch of boys that tramped into
Salle late that night, where we rested till next morning. As usual,
we were placed in barns, and I was fortunate enough to get a fine
bunch of straw. I didn't require any rocking to sleep that night.
Next morning a bunch of us slipped out and dined on the best in a
partly demolished _estaminet_. Having a good working knowledge of
French, if the people speak slowly, I acted as interpreter for the
boys. If I did not remember the exact word, I would say it in
English. As Tommy Atkins had been very chummy with the natives here,
they had acquired some decidedly Billingsgate English; so in a
mixture of bad French and English profanity we got along fairly well.
It was side-splitting though to hear our hostess speaking pure French
interlarded with fearful oaths of profanity in English, the nature of
which she was entirely ignorant. She, poor soul, imagined she was
speaking our tongue very well.
Another luxury came our way in the shape of a bath and complete
change of clothing. We took our ablutions in the big brewery vats
and barrels. Here was the water wagon with a vengeance. After a
grueling afternoon of bayonet fighting practice we were away again
till at last the now familiar star shells told us that we were going
to exchange greetings with Fritz once more.
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[Illustration: GERMAN SHELL EXPLODING NEAR BRITISH BATTERY.]
The Germans are trying to get the range of the hidden battery. Two
of the Tommies of the gun crew are taking cover to avoid injury from
the flying bits of shell.
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It was not till next morning that we found where we were.
Tremendous, ear-splitting crashing of artillery was shaking the very
ground under our feet.
Our own artillery at this time was entirely too inadequate to
suitably answer the thunderous message of the enemy. To give some
idea of the odds against us in those days, and how we were
out-gunned, it is only fair to say to the people who were so ready to
criticize the Allies that, apart from the wonderful French
seventy-five millimeter guns, our artillery was practically _non
est_. The Germans had guns ranging from fifteen pounds to the
gigantic howitzers hurling a shell of 1,800 pounds, with an unlimited
supply of ammunition.
It is a well-known fact that for months the average per gun was about
six shells per day. Ah! many a gallant lad might be alive today if
he had been properly covered by artillery in those days! And you,
dear reader, do not forget, when glorifying in the deeds of America's
brave lads, that it is unfair to compare present conditions with
those dark days, for in fairness to our dead, it must be said that
you in America are learning war from the nations who have paid for
their experience by bitter losses.
At our back were a few of these sixty-pounders, but, few as they
were, the very earth trembled at their detonation, making our ears
ring and our heads ache. There is a peculiar metallic ring in the
report of these guns which seems to split the drums of one's ears.
It causes one to be strangely irritable, and quarrels often took
place which otherwise never would have happened, the sole cause of
which was shell-shock.
The curious sustained roar of fire and answering fire fills a soldier
with awe, much the same feeling as of a man viewing a mighty cataract
for the first time. The very ground shakes and if a man is standing
on a hard road, he will be repeatedly lifted from the ground by the
shock. Gun crews suffer from gun-shock and men are often sent down
to recover from, not so much the bursting shells of the enemy, as
from the effect of the deafening voices of their own pets.
This effect is evidenced in a number of different ways, the most
common being a trickling of blood from the ear, which in nearly every
instance is the prelude for ear trouble for the remainder of one's
days. The dazed effect is shown by a shivering and shaking of the
entire body, accompanied with a sort of vague, expressionless staring
from which men have been known to suffer for months after they have
left the firing line.
It was my good fortune once to see one of the first of the British
heavies to reach the firing line, and to be present when it was fired
for the first time. Naturally, we were all agog to see one of these
monsters, for we had heard for weeks the rumor that they were coming.
It was one fine day in early spring that the first 15.2 rifle rumbled
into the village in which we were billeted. I did not see it arrive,
but Morgan came to tell me.
"See the little pea-shooter?" said his swarthiness.
"No, has she arrived?"
"Yes; going to see her?"
"I might if I went in good company."
"Clever, ain't yuh? But who can explain pea-shooters better than
your Uncle Dudley?"
"Yes, your knowledge extends possibly to pea-shooters, but this thing
is a man's gun."
"Well, how in hell can you understand it? Nobody ever mistook _you_
for a man, you poor little runt," the last with such a look of
compassion that I had to laugh.
"All right, come on."
Quarreling all the way we arrived at the gun emplacement. The gun
supports rested on a solid concrete base, while the muzzle tilted at
an angle of about forty-five degrees. The system of hoisting the
enormous shells I could not fathom, but a mass of wheels and other
machinery seemed to do the business as if by magic. The gun had been
hauled by a powerful tractor to its present position. Brawny
six-foot marines of the Royal Marine Artillery sweated as they hauled
and levered to get everything in shape to make their pet comfortable
while she passed the time of day with the Boches.
It was all that four of these husky marines could do to roll the
enormous shells by the aid of crowbars.
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[Illustration: A MONSTER BRITISH GUN.]
Giant guns such as this are moved about on specially constructed
railways, which are always built ahead, so that when the enemy is
driven back the guns can go forward instantly.
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The gun, emplacement and impedimenta were painted to deceive the keen
eye of the Hun air-men. A wonderful medley of colors, but experience
had taught the Allies by this time the proper shading to use to make
the whole thing merge with the landscape.
At last everything was ready and the monster was prepared to send
over her first calling card. The marines stepped away from the gun
to the rear of an old barn about twenty yards off, telling us to
follow. The sergeant of the marines instructed us to lie down. The
ground being rather muddy, we chose to disregard his advice. The gun
roared, we were knocked flat by the concussion, and when we had
collected our wits sufficiently to look around we found that the barn
had been knocked flat too.
On another occasion, Morgan and I, at great risk to ourselves, had
stolen a liberal ration of tea, with its necessary dressing of sugar,
from C Company's supply. It must be remembered that the heavy
artillery ranges from two to five miles back of the line and men may
be in billets with these guns behind them. Morgan suggested that we
make our hot tea between two walls that were yet standing and we took
an old pail, and made a fire in it, and proceeded to brew our tea.
Just as the nectar was giving out a most fragrant odor and causing us
some misgivings lest other prowlers should spot us, the heavies at
that identical moment started an argument with the Boche. The air
concussion drove straight between the two walls where the tea-party
was in progress and carried the fire, the tea and the tea-party clear
out on to the cobbled road, where all the elements of fire, water,
tea and tea-party were most damnably mixed.
We both involuntarily exclaimed "---- ---- ---- ---- ----."