YSER
When relieved from this hillside we once more marched through Ypres,
had two days' rest in the adjoining fields, and were then sent to
guard the Yser Canal.
Our flanks touched the very city itself and during the day we could
see houses falling and the city being systematically pounded to dust.
I shall never forget the day that Fritz turned his attention to the
canal bank. Most of the battalion were in dugouts they had made
themselves, just on the sloping side of an orchard; the orchard was
the top of a bank; on one side was the Yser River and on the other
side was a brook. It will be seen that we were dug in between two
streams, with the brook flowing about forty feet below us, and we
stationed on the side of the bank in our holes about three quarters
of the way up from the bottom.
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[Illustration: The Fifth are dug in on what was a beautiful orchard
and garden, 60 feet above the French, enabling them to sweep the
French front with cross-fire. The German lines completely enveloped
this salient. The bridge (Hell's Corner) was an important
transportation factor, hence Fritz's constant attention and its
nickname. [_See page 201_]]
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Huge shells began to burst with deafening noise in the field on the
other side of the brook, while a few dropped right in among us,
causing many casualties, and such was the fury of the bombardment
that the ground rolled and heaved as though being shaken with a quake.
Trembling with terror I hugged the bottom of my dugout, expecting
every moment to be either buried or thrown up in the air. However,
it was not to be. But, suddenly, the ground beneath me began to
slide, and for what seemed an age I felt myself riding on the top of
a solid mass of earth. What had happened was this, the whole bank
had slid away in the direction of the brook, and, incredible as it
may seem, the brook afterwards flowed some twenty yards farther away
than it had done previously.
Still nothing could depress for long the spirit of the Fifth and soon
the boys were taking note of their surroundings. Presently a bunch
of French soldiers passed along by us with two huge panniers loaded
with bottles full of the best vintage in the neighborhood; they had
gotten them in the city. Instantly the boys pricked up their ears
and longing glances were cast toward the stricken town. In a short
time the more adventurous spirits had found their way into the city
and returned laden with all kinds of good food and the same
refreshing liquid that the Frenchies carried.
Libby, who was ever a leader in any reckless enterprise, accompanied
by Fitzpatrick, made their way into Ypres and came back with stores
of good things to eat and drink and bursting stories of the quantity
of stuff lying around. "If we only had a motor truck we could have
filled it," they said.
Next day I went with a party. It was no small feat to get away from
the battalion without being noticed, but we managed it and Libby led
the way to the barracks occupied formerly by the Belgians, and used
during the winter of 1914-15 as headquarters for the British
divisions who were holding the salient.
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[Illustration: THE YSER CANAL.]
The barbed-wire entanglements mark the first-line German trenches.
The men in the picture are German officers.
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A Belgian sentry at the battered gates allowed us to go in and we
mounted the stairs of the barracks, entering a long room that
apparently had been the sleeping quarters of the Belgian soldiers,
for pegs and numbers and framework of cots were hanging on the wall.
But what interested us most was a number of brand-new Lee-Enfield
rifles packed away in boxes; we possessed ourselves with one each.
Then we turned our attention to the clothing left by the
quartermasters of the British Army. We quickly selected underwear, a
good jackknife each, and anything else to which we took a fancy. The
underwear was of the very finest quality, being sent out by the
ladies in England to the young subalterns. Canned fruit, rations of
tea, chocolate--everything heart could desire was there in abundance.
Our chief trouble was in determining what to select and what to leave.
When we sallied out the difficulty was to dodge the pickets who had
been placed in the town to prevent looting. Now we had been
unquestionably looting, but it was excusable in that we took nothing
that belonged to the civil population; still it properly came under
the head of looting and the pickets would have shot us on sight had
they caught us with our spoils. Therefore, it was one thing to get
it, but quite another thing to transport it in safety to our dugout.
We separated into twos, Libby and Fitzpatrick with the rifles taking
one route, and a boy named Powell and myself with the rest of the
loot, taking another. All went well with us until we ran into the
arms of a Tommy, alas, one of the pickets. He was a typical John
Bull and he was there to prevent just such things as we had been
doing. We tried bluff--
"Good-day, chum."
"What are you doing without your arms in here?" he asked.
Here was a poser, for to be without arms in the danger zone is a
terrible crime. Powell tried to rise to the occasion by explaining
that we had been sent with messages and had not far to go.
"What have you got in those valises?"
Our hearts sank into our boots. Our answer did not satisfy him in
the least. Still holding his rifle at the "ready"--
"Right-about face! an' don't try any bloomin' funny business or yer
dead. Quick march."
My heart sank into my boots and I gave up in despair, for escape
seemed impossible. And then followed as fine a bit of team work as I
have ever witnessed in my life. The Tommy not only had his bayonet
fixed, but in his rifle we knew there were at least five rounds of
live ammunition. But the thought of quietly giving up had not
entered Powell's head. Just as we were passing a huge crater hole,
he stumbled over and fell right at our captor's feet and frantically
grabbed them. My own wits, I am glad to say, acted like lightning
and I grabbed him round the neck and he toppled over. Quicker than
it takes to tell, we rolled him to the edge of the crater hole and
gave him a vigorous, though not too violent a push over, and down he
rolled to the bottom. I can still see the smoke of his ascending
remarks.
Then we ran for dear life. Luck was with us and we landed safely in
our dugouts, loot and all. We hurriedly unstrapped our valises from
our shoulders and disposed of our stuff in a concealed hole, because
we were afraid, knowing the character of the British soldier, that he
would find out where we belonged.
And sure enough, before long, he heaves on the horizon. Now was
exemplified the old saw, "Money talks." Before he could reach the
headquarters' dugout, Powell darted across and intercepted him. I
followed.
"Say, chum," said Powell in broken-hearted tones, "you ain't going to
split on us, are you?"
"Horders is horders, an' you blokes played me a damned nasty trick."
"Have you any money, chum?" asked Powell.
"No."
Powell took a five-franc bill out of his pocket and I followed suit.
Lucky we were to have it as we were generally as destitute as he.
Ten francs is wealth untold to a soldier on the Western Front. While
Tommy's eyes glinted, he hesitated.
"Come on, chum," says I, "you know you would have done the same if
you had been up the line like we have for the last fifteen days or
so, and wanted some good grub and a change of clothes."
"But how am I to know that nobody saw me with you two blokes?"
"Nobody saw us," Powell hastily assured him.
"Well, besides, you bunged me into that 'ole, an' yer were none too
gentle over it neither."
Desperate and thinking the game was about up, I ventured,
"Don't you think that was a pretty neat trick, partner, all the same?"
The humor of it all came to our rescue, for a slow smile spread over
his English mug.
"P'raps yer right," says he; "give me yer ten francs an' we'll call
it square. But, remember, if I gets 'auled hover the coals, I'll
'ave to come for yer then."
He left with the last of our money, but leaving us a huge pile of
comfort, and we heard nothing more of the matter.
One afternoon I sat reading a book and happening to glance up I
beheld a strange sight. Walking, or I should say limping between two
stalwart French infantrymen was a cripple. His left arm was doubled
up at the elbow; later on I discovered it was withered. One leg was
fully six inches shorter than the other and, to my astonishment, the
Frenchmen were treating him none too kindly. They were not abusing
him, as the natural courtesy of every Frenchman will not permit him
to be impolite even to the hated Boches, but I could see that they
would have dearly loved to have thrown their crippled prisoner down
the steep banks of the canal. Being a runner, I was more or less
privileged and my curiosity being aroused I determined to follow the
party. They stopped at the headquarters' dugout and pushed their
prisoner in. Walworth, in the absence of an interpreter, always
officiated when difficulties of language cropped out. He was sent
for. I listened to the Frenchmen's story. It appears these
Frenchmen noticed, when coming down the main street of Ypres, that
one of the houses showed very little signs of hard usage. After such
a bombardment, this struck them as being suspicious, and knowing the
cunning of the Hun only too well, they determined to search the
house. Nothing did they find, but they were still dissatisfied.
Quite by accident they hit on a door leading to a cellar underneath
the house. Installed in this cellar was a complete telephone system,
and our cripple and another man were operating it. The cripple's
accomplice was promptly bayoneted by the irate Frenchmen, but they
decided to take the other man along to the nearest headquarters,
which happened to be ours. Whether or not these men were spies I
cannot tell, but the evidence would point that way. Suffice it to
say that the cripple was sent away to brigade headquarters and I am
absolutely in the dark as to his ultimate fortune.
It was not only my immediate chums who were refitting themselves and
feeding themselves in the "hospitable" city of Ypres; every soldier
who could do so partook of its bounty.
Many and varied were the souvenirs that the boys brought back with
them. To their credit be it said that they never took a thing that
had belonged to any of the inhabitants, but the army was a different
and legitimate prey. There was one exception, however, and a bunch
of Number Seven Platoon were the proud purloiners of a brand-new
gramophone. They had consumed a little wine and were correspondingly
gay. Now, my Holy Rollers I suppose we shall have you holding up
your hands in horror at those awful soldiers. Don't worry your
precious souls; those boys were not allowed to get drunk. If they
did disobey orders, we did our best to shield them and take over
their duties until they were themselves again. It was very rare that
they ever transgressed in this regard.
Soon the gramophone was playing merrily away and we poured from our
holes like so many rabbits to listen. Oh, the power of music! War
may seem romantic in a certain sense to those at a distance, but to
those actually engaged in it, it is a sordid monotonous business.
Home, parents and loved ones were brought nearer to us than before
and memories of an existence that seemed to have passed and gone from
us long ago filled my very being.
Under the influence of the music the boys evidently forgot there was
a war, for one by one we crept from our dugouts and gathered around
the charm box. Fritz, however, had not forgotten about the war at
all and he soon reminded us that we were there for more serious
business than daydreaming under the influence of a gramophone. A
salvo of five whiz bangs readily brought us down to earth and into
earth we scuttled like a bunch of human ground hogs; I think I made
the twenty-yard space to my hole in one leap; at least it seemed like
a single jump. No one was hit, but we hugged our holes knowing that
the dose would be repeated.
I couldn't help but laugh when I heard the voice of one of the boys
raised in anger to his chum. "Didn't you bring in the gramophone?"
"Do you think I was going to wait for that?" replied the chum.
"Well, we wouldn't miss you," was the rejoinder, "but if that music
box gets smashed, what shall we do?"
The awful possibility of such a contingency must have instantly
aroused the negligent one to a sense of the impending danger, for
darting from his hole he recovered the precious instrument and made a
return trip for the records.
For the few days that we were sunken in those miserable holes, which
were the merest apologies for dugouts on the canal, we lightened the
tedium of the many hours of weary waiting by the magic of that
wonderful box.
The initiative of our mob was never better shown than in the
following amusing happening. At night those of us who were not
engaged in fatigues were told off to patrol the canal banks. Day and
night a never-ending stream of French soldiers would pour from the
city carrying with them loads of wine, etc. Walworth, who spoke
French like a native and who was the possessor of a commanding
physique and air, would temporarily, at the wish of his comrades,
take charge of the patrol, and they would halt a party of these
Frenchmen and tell them that they had orders to confiscate all loot,
and, deeply as they regretted it, they must disgorge their wine,
together with the et ceteras they had. An argument would follow and
the Frenchmen would protest. Then Walworth, with an air of
condescension, and a warning to the Frenchmen to say nothing about
this breach of duty, would agree to a division of the spoils.
Through this handy medium we were saved the trouble of going after it
ourselves. Arriving at our dugouts in the morning we would find a
bottle or two of very excellent wine which had been thrown into our
holes by the Frenchies, and this wine heated made a very acceptable
drink in the chill hours of the morning.
Another evidence of my "yellow streak" took place one day when we
went for a bath in the canal. Every man who knew me and who is alive
today laughs every time the incident is mentioned. My chums had all
left the water, but I decided to swim the canal once more. Just then
a shell landed plumb in the water, most uncomfortably close. The
sensation I experienced was peculiar, to put it mildly. I spun round
and round, after the fashion of a top, and fancied that I had
swallowed half the water of the canal. Struggling in a sort of
frightened frenzy to the shore, and without waiting to put on my
clothes, I dashed like a flash of lightning up the canal bank into
the orchard and hurled myself into my hole, where I sat blubbering
and sobbing like a scared child.