MORE HELL
The next morning the word was passed for runners, and the company
runners hied themselves to the major. He in turn told us we were to
report to the Colonel for detailed instructions, and that we were to
find out as much about our whereabouts as possible, the best routes
to headquarters, to the front line, etc. This we promptly proceeded
to do, and in due time arrived before the Old Man. His words to us I
have forgotten, but we left him with an appreciation of the ticklish
work on hand.
On our way back we all took different routes back to the company.
The idea, of course, was to get a knowledge of all the best roads to
take when things were hot. Each man mapped out a rough sketch of the
road he had taken for the benefit of the others. My road took me for
about a quarter of a mile down the cobbled road, where I turned off
for the major's headquarters. I parted from another of the runners
here, his route taking him through the village. Incidentally, this
coolest of all cool fishes, stopped amongst the shattered houses to
see, as he afterwards phrased it, "If there was anything there that
nobody had any use for."
I might say the Germans were always busy with their guns on the
devastated place, but the incident only goes to show the very
peculiar fatalism, that every soldier unconsciously acquires. If he
was to be killed in that village, he would get it; that is all there
was to it, so he calmly searched the brick piles. The horribly
mangled trunk of a tall soldier did not make me any too happy when I
stumbled over it directly after leaving my partner. Still I
carefully mapped out my route, and meeting another clan runner, we
walked the rest of the trip to the major's quarters together.
"Hi mates," said a voice apparently from the bowels of the earth,
"come and 'ave a drink o' tea."
The voice came from a field kitchen cunningly hidden in a bank of the
road.
"You bet," was our reply together.
The owner of the voice, a short sturdy Cockney, filled a dixie and
handed it to me.
I took a long drink, then handed the canteen to my chum.
"I think I'll stretch me legs," said our host.
Forthwith he stepped from his shelter into the road. He had barely
taken a dozen steps, when a small shell landed quite a distance in
front of him. About a second after the explosion, with a cry, the
man threw himself flat on his face and lay still. Both of us knew
that the shell had landed too far up the road to be very dangerous to
him. We ran to our host, turned him over, only to find that he was
stone dead.
"Well I'm jiggered," said my runner chum.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Killed by a stone."
It was quite true. The shell had hit the cobbles, and a flying
splinter of stone had taken him in the head, killing him instantly.
We helped to bury him. Killed in the very act of showing kindness to
a comrade! Another debt to brother Boche.
That day the company was gradually moved to a more advanced position,
and again my heart tightened as I listened to the roar of the fight
in front. I was kept busy carrying messages backwards and forwards
to headquarters, to the front line, to the signallers, and with
frequent messages to the artillery.
It may be of interest to some for me to relate how I saw one of my
messages acted upon. My message was a verbal one, and I delivered it
as I received it as follows:
"To O.C. 2nd Artillery Brigade:
"Please search wood on my left flank, range about 2,000 yards."
"From O.C. No. 2 Co. 5th Battalion.
"_Time, 3 P.M._"
The artillery O.C. in charge was seated in the forked branches of a
tall elm tree, which by another of those unaccountable miracles had
escaped Fritz's attention. Knowing the Boche's methods, I expected
every minute to see the tree smashed to flinders by a salvo from his
guns. The message, however, had to be delivered to him, so up the
tree I scrambled. I felt as though forty different Boche artillery
observers had their eyes glued upon me when I climbed that tree.
Nothing happened however to the tree or its occupants, and I hailed
the beaming artillery O.C.
"Hello!" roared he.
"Hello, sir."
"Great work the boys are doing."
"Yes, sir."
Then I repeated my message.
"Yours to command," said he, and bellowed an order through the
mouthpiece of his 'phone.
"Do you want to see what happens?" said he.
"By gum, yes," said I, forgetting his rank in my excitement. True
enough the wood was tapped at the very first shot, but after a few
rounds, although the shooting was excellent, he gave the order to
"Cease fire."
"What have you quit for, sir?"
"No more shells," laconically.
I descended the tree and returned to the major.
All this time the fight increased in intensity, the Germans putting
over a fearful bombardment, both on the front line and away to the
rear. Casualties were coming by our location in an endless stream.
Some were being carried to the dressing station, but those who could
walk or hobble at all, were making their way back as well as they
could. It was a pitiful, yet a wonderful sight. Their battered
uniforms, plastered with mud and filth, bandages of various hues on
their heads, and dressings on their limbs and bodies. Some were
being helped along by their comrades; others limped past with the aid
of a rifle used as a crutch. Some would stop for a rest, and we
would do all we could to help them, at the same time asking how
things were going up in front. They told a story of tremendous
bombing attacks, on both sides, but Fritz was having the better of
the argument, being more liberally supplied with bombs. On hearing
this, I felt again that gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach, for
I knew there would soon be some ticklish work for me. Suddenly the
sight of that stream of wounded sickened me and I turned to hide my
face, and ran straight into Campbell's arms.
"Good God! Ken, I shall go crazy if I don't do something, those poor
devils are getting on my nerves."
"Pluck up, son," said he, "you'll feel better when we go up, and I
for one am expecting it any minute."
No word of condemnation at my funk, just encouragement. Such was our
Ken Campbell. Brave as a lion himself, yet possessed of a rare
sympathy for those not so blessed.
The cheeriness of these wounded was wonderful, and, in spite of their
hurts, they regaled us as they passed with the story of the times
they were going to have in Blighty.
Then my call came. "Pass the word for a runner." Away I went to the
major.
"You know the way to headquarters well?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take this to Colonel T----, and on your way up you will leave a
squad of bombers at the bottom of the road leading to Colonel L----'s
trenches."
The bombers were all ready for me, and stringing out in a line we
began our journey. We were lucky, and I left the bombers, minus two
who had been slightly wounded by shrapnel, at the appointed place.
Wishing them luck I managed to reach the Old Man, terribly scared,
but unhurt.
Just as I started on my return journey a fusillade of bullets began
to chip up everything, and I crawled along thanking heaven I was a
little man, and wishing at the same time I was half as big. By and
by I arrived in safer territory, and in spite of the nature of the
ground, finished the trip at a jog trot.
Again the boys were moved nearer to the first line. Under a terrific
shell fire, in small bodies they stole to the dugouts in the grounds
of what had been a beautiful residence. An order came that night for
the boys to go up on a working party. I was utterly worn out, but
gritting my teeth I fell in with the rest. Once more Ken Campbell
showed his great heart. "God bless him and rest him where he lies."
His superior does not exist, and he will always be my soldier ideal
so long as I live.
"Say, Baldwin, you stay behind."
"What for, Sergeant-major?"
"Don't answer me back; you're to stay here and sleep."
Without a word I fell out, and walked to a dugout where I stretched
myself out to sleep. But sleep would not come. I was worried. I
was wondering whether it was really a working party the boys were
detailed for. I imagined what they would think of me if I stayed
back when they faced it. Sleep was out of the question, so I walked
out to the sentry on the road.
"Say, Alec," said I, "do you think the boys are going to take part in
an attack tonight?"
"Don't know, Bobbie, but why should you worry?"
"Hell! the boys will think I funked."
Further conversation, for awhile, stopped as we crouched, while Fritz
treated the dressing station opposite to two big shells. We were
unhurt.
Wounded men were now passing in streams, and I asked if any of the
Fifth were there.
"No," was the reply, "the Fifth went over tonight."
"Oh, heavens! Alec, they've been in a charge and they'll think I
funked."
"Don't be a blankety-blank fool, Bub. You have done your share today
and you were ordered to stay back."
But my mental agony increased. What would Fritz and Lib think of me?
What would Muirhead, Shields and the others think?
Presently a breathless runner stopped and asked, "Do either of you
guys know the way to headquarters?"
"Sure," said I, "come on."
"What's doing?" said I, as we trotted along.
"Oh Fritz has the wind up (excited) and is rapid firing."
"Is that all? You're from the Eighth, eh?"
"Yep."
"Has the Fifth been doing anything?"
"I heard they had gone over on our right."
I almost vomited with shame as I heard his words.
The two of us successfully dodged everything, and I led the way to
the Old Man. The runner gave his message and was asked how
everything seemed.
"Are the men holding?" said the adjutant.
"Sure, sir," was the reply with that ring of pride in his comrades
that made one's heart sing.
"Take a rest then, my boy, you need it, and take your own time
getting back."
"Thank you, sir."
This over, I ventured to address the adjutant, who I thought was a
little gentler natured than the Old Man.
"Sir, did the Fifth go over tonight?"
"No, they have a damned ticklish job, though, digging out in front."
"May I go to them, sir?"
"Why?"
"You understand, sir, they'll accuse me of funking."
"You go straight away and sleep, or I'll have you crimed for
insolence."
Oh, the relief! I slowly trudged back and slept the coma of utter
exhaustion. The afternoon following things became desperate, and it
was our lot to be sent up to help reinforce our depleted lines.
A curious incident that often gives me food for thought took place
just before we ventured out on our desperate attempt to reach the
line in broad daylight. In the corner of two battered walls, birds
had built a nest, and two or three young ones were occupying it. To
keep from view of the airmen we took shelter behind these walls. I,
as usual, was full of forebodings about the journey we were so soon
to make. Judge of my wonderment when one of the boys called me to
look at the way the parent birds were feeding their young.
Apparently oblivious of war or anything else, with exclamations of
delight, he studied the birds as no naturalist ever did. The sight
sent my thoughts flying back to a little English home in Derby.
"Spread out, boys," came the order.
Our journey had begun. As we passed the third line we were handed
additional ammunition, two bandoliers per man. The major left a file
of men under the command of a lieutenant to look after our ammunition
magazine. They shook hands and then we deployed out, bang in the
open.
With fearful cracks the shrapnel burst over our heads. Machine guns
clattered, but with perfect steadiness the boys made their way to the
second line. Here a fearful sight met our gaze. The trench was
battered to pieces, while dead and wounded men lay everywhere.
A call was sent for volunteers to get some of the stricken lads from
the first line. An immediate response was given and under a terrible
fire most of the bad cases were pulled out.
The attack we expected fizzled out, but the fire never ceased.
Campbell came along and asked for volunteers to carry out a badly
smashed man. Four of my chums, each one as husky a specimen of
manhood as one would wish to see, swore profanely they were "his
meat."
"Will you go out with them and carry their rifles?" said he to me.
"Yes," said I, as my knees knocked together. The wounded man was
placed on a stretcher and our journey began.
The man on the stretcher was a big man and in spite of the strength
of the four volunteer bearers, they were taxed to the uttermost owing
to the roughness of the ground and the necessity for taking cover
every other minute in order to save the wounded man and themselves
from injury.
We finally reached the road safely, with me bringing up the rear. I
was carrying five rifles besides my own, and thinking it would be
easier to handle them, I slung two over each shoulder, and fastened
them with the bayonets slanting front downwards, and with the wounded
man's and my own, one in each hand, I fairly bristled with bayonets.
In one of our dashes for the ditch to seek cover, I tripped and fell
forward and the bayonets of the rifles that were slung on my
shoulders and slanting forward plunged into the earth and forcibly
suspended me in midair, and there I was compelled to hang until my
chums released me by taking me by the collar and setting me on my
feet. Roaring with laughter my pals advised me to unfix the bayonets
and, said Batch, "Don't go trying to stab yourself with them the next
time we have to beat it for cover. Oh, runt, you will be the death
of me yet with your comical ways."
Even the wounded man, with five bad shrapnel wounds, laughed and then
moaned with the pain.
Nothing further happened until we came to the dressing station and
one of the doctors curtly dismissed us. Batch and myself decided we
would make for our old dugout by a short route, going by the north
side of the dressing station. It was now getting dark and on our way
Batch inadvertently plunged head foremost into a dyke. First, a
guzzle, and then things unprintable. I successfully cleared the dyke
by grabbing an overhanging willow and swinging myself across.
Again we started, falling over tangled wire in the rank grass, and,
to make matters worse, stinging nettles, which grew plentifully in
this particular place, came constantly in contact with our hands or
faces. Words again failed us. As a climax to our feelings, Fritz
right at this particular moment decided to shell this particular
place. Deafened, almost blinded by the detonation and the flash of
shells, we found ourselves finally not at our dugout, but at the
dressing station from which we had started. We had traveled in a
circle. I could hear nothing but the grinding of Batch's big white
teeth. I then determined to be the guide of our little party and so
informed Batch, and in half the time that we had taken to make the
long course, we found ourselves comfortably ensconced in the dugout
at the house I have previously mentioned, and in short order Batch
had his pipe out, smoking strongly with the complete satisfaction of
a man who has done his duty. I searched for my pipe and was dismayed
at not being able to find it.
"Where is your pipe, Bub?" said Batch.
"Blime me, I guess I must have left it out in the dugout by the apple
tree so I will go and see if it is there."
"Better find it, as I have some St. Clair's mixture from Newcastle."
This tobacco was the joy of a soldier's heart and I made my way to
the dugout where I felt sure I had left it and there sure enough it
was lying on a couple of sandbags. I grabbed it and started back to
rejoin Batch, but, just as I did so, I heard the peculiar moaning
sound of a "coal box" that seemed to be coming straight at me.
Sweating with apprehension I threw myself flat and waited the arrival
of hell's messenger. Cr-r-r-mp! it landed right on the dugout I had
just vacated. Why I was not killed instantly is one of those miracle
mysteries that can never be answered, for I was only about twenty
feet away when that shell, which was a 5.9 high explosive, burst
directly on the dugout.
I flung myself down beside Batch, telling him of the incident. All
the sympathy I got was, "Serves you damn well right; a soldier ought
to know better than to leave his pipe lying around loose."
About an hour after this the boys came down again, with many familiar
faces missing. We were allowed a few hours of interrupted sleep, and
about daylight we stood to, as is the custom on the Western Front.
It was most uncannily quiet after the past days of a continuous fire;
the silence disturbed us, and we could see by the actions of the
officers that they too were uneasy. Still the fatalistic spirit of
the men reasserted itself and the poker parties soon resumed their
sittings.