MUD, RATS, AND SHELLS
I must have slept for two or three hours, not the refreshing kind that
results from clean sheets and soft pillows, but the sleep that comes
from cold, wet, and sheer exhaustion.
Suddenly, the earth seemed to shake and a thunderclap burst in my
ears. I opened my eyes,--I was splashed all over with sticky mud,
and men were picking themselves up from the bottom of the trench. The
parapet on my left had toppled into the trench, completely blocking it
with a wall of tossed-up earth. The man on my left lay still. I rubbed
the mud from my face, and an awful sight met my gaze--his head was
smashed to a pulp, and his steel helmet was full of brains and blood.
A German "Minnie" (trench mortar) had exploded in the next traverse.
Men were digging into the soft mass of mud in a frenzy of haste.
Stretcher-bearers came up the trench on the double. After a few
minutes of digging, three still, muddy forms on stretchers were
carried down the communication trench to the rear. Soon they would be
resting "somewhere in France," with a little wooden cross over their
heads. They had done their bit for King and Country, had died without
firing a shot, but their services were appreciated, nevertheless.
Later on, I found out their names. They belonged to our draft.
I was dazed and motionless. Suddenly a shovel was pushed into my
hands, and a rough but kindly voice said:
"Here, my lad, lend a hand clearing the trench, but keep your head
down, and look out for snipers. One of the Fritz's is a daisy, and
he'll get you if you're not careful."
Lying on my belly on the bottom of the trench, I filled sandbags with
the sticky mud. They were dragged to my rear by the other men, and the
work of rebuilding the parapet was on. The harder I worked, the better
I felt. Although the weather was cold, I was soaked with sweat.
Occasionally a bullet would crack overhead, and a machine gun would
kick up the mud on the bashed-in parapet. At each crack I would duck
and shield my face with my arm. One of the older men noticed this
action of mine, and whispered:
"Don't duck at the crack of a bullet, Yank; the danger has passed,--you
never hear the one that wings you. Always remember that if you are
going to get it, you'll get it, so never worry."
This made a great impression on me at the time, and from then on, I
adopted his motto, "If you're going to get it, you'll get it."
It helped me wonderfully. I used it so often afterwards that some of
my mates dubbed me, "If you're going to get it, you'll get it."
After an hour's hard work, all my nervousness left me, and I was
laughing and joking with the rest.
At one o'clock, dinner came up in the form of a dixie of hot stew.
I looked for my canteen. It had fallen off the fire step, and was half
buried in the mud. The man on my left noticed this, and told the
Corporal, dishing out the rations, to put my share in his mess tin.
Then he whispered to me, "Always take care of your mess tin, mate."
I had learned another maxim of the trenches.
That stew tasted fine, I was as hungry as a bear. We had "seconds," or
another helping, because three of the men had gone "West," killed by
the explosion of the German trench mortar, and we ate their share, but
still I was hungry, so I filled in with bully beef and biscuits. Then
I drained my water bottle. Later on I learned another maxim of the
front line,--"Go sparingly with your water." The bully beef made me
thirsty, and by tea time I was dying for a drink, but my pride would
not allow me to ask my mates for water. I was fast learning the ethics
of the trenches.
That night I was put on guard with an older man. We stood on the fire
step with our heads over the top, peering out into No Man's Land. It
was nervous work for me, but the other fellow seemed to take it as
part of the night's routine.
Then something shot past my face. My heart stopped beating, and I
ducked my head below the parapet. A soft chuckle from my mate brought
me to my senses, and I feebly asked, "For God's sake, what was that?"
He answered, "Only a rat taking a promenade along the sandbags." I
felt very sheepish.
About every twenty minutes the sentry in the next traverse would fire
a star shell from his flare pistol. The "plop" would give me a start
of fright. I never got used to this noise during my service in the
trenches.
I would watch the arc described by the star shell, and then stare into
No Man's Land waiting for it to burst. In its lurid light the barbed
wire and stakes would be silhouetted against its light like a latticed
window. Then darkness.
Once, out in front of our wire, I heard a noise and saw dark forms
moving. My rifle was lying across the sandbagged parapet. I reached
for it, and was taking aim to fire, when my mate grasped my arm, and
whispered, "Don't fire." He challenged in a low voice. The reply
came back instantly from the dark forms:
"Shut your blinkin' mouth, you bloomin' idiot; do you want us to click
it from the Boches?"
Later we learned that the word, "No challenging or firing, wiring
party out in front," had been given to the sentry on our right, but he
had failed to pass it down the trench. An officer had overheard our
challenge and the reply, and immediately put the offending sentry
under arrest. The sentry clicked twenty-one days on the wheel, that
is, he received twenty-one days' Field Punishment No. I, or
"crucifixion," as Tommy terms it.
This consists of being spread-eagled on the wheel of a limber two
hours a day for twenty-one days, regardless of the weather. During
this period, your rations consist of bully beef, biscuits, and water.
A few months later I met this sentry and he confided to me that since
being "crucified," he has never failed to pass the word down the
trench when so ordered. In view of the offence, the above punishment
was very light, in that failing to pass the word down a trench may
mean the loss of many lives, and the spoiling of some important
enterprise in No Man's Land.