"THE DAY'S WORK"
I was fast learning that there is a regular routine about the work of
the trenches, although it is badly upset at times by the Germans.
The real work in the fire trench commences at sundown. Tommy is like a
burglar, he works at night.
Just as it begins to get dark the word "stand to" is passed from
traverse to traverse, and the men get busy. The first relief,
consisting of two men to a traverse, mount the fire step, one man
looking over the top, while the other sits at his feet, ready to carry
messages or to inform the platoon officer of any report made by the
sentry as to his observations in No Man's Land. The sentry is not
allowed to relax his watch for a second. If he is questioned from the
trench or asked his orders, he replies without turning around or
taking his eyes from the expanse of dirt in front of him. The
remainder of the occupants of his traverse either sit on the fire
step, with bayonets fixed, ready for any emergency, or if lucky, and a
dugout happens to be in the near vicinity of the traverse, and if the
night is quiet, they are permitted to go to same and try and snatch a
few winks of sleep. Little sleeping is done; generally the men sit
around, smoking fags and seeing who can tell the biggest lie. Some of
them perhaps, with their feet in water, would write home sympathizing
with the "governor" because he was laid up with a cold, contracted by
getting his feet, wet on his way to work in Woolwich Arsenal. If a man
should manage to doze off, likely as not he would wake with a start as
the clammy, cold feet of a rat passed over his face, or the next
relief stepped on his stomach while stumbling on their way to relieve
the sentries in the trench.
Just try to sleep with a belt full of ammunition around you, your
rifle bolt biting into your ribs, entrenching tool handle sticking
into the small of your back, with a tin hat for a pillow; and feeling
very damp and cold, with "cooties" boring for oil in your arm pits,
the air foul from the stench of grimy human bodies and smoke from a
juicy pipe being whiffed into your nostrils, then you will not wonder
why Tommy occasionally takes a turn in the trench for a rest.
While in a front-line trench, orders forbid Tommy from removing his
boots, puttees, clothing, or equipment. The "cooties" take advantage
of this order and mobilize their forces, and Tommy swears vengeance on
them and mutters to himself, "just wait until I hit rest billets and
am able to get my own back."
Just before daylight the men "turn to" and tumble out of the dugouts,
man the fire step until it gets light, or the welcome order "stand
down" is given. Sometimes before "stand down" is ordered, the command
"five rounds rapid" is passed along the trench. This means that each
man must rest his rifle on the top and fire as rapidly as possible
five shots aimed toward the German trenches, and then duck (with the
emphasis on the "duck"). There is a great rivalry between the opposing
forces to get their rapid fire off first, because the early bird, in
this instance, catches the worm,--sort of gets the jump on the other
fellow, catching him unawares.
We had a Sergeant in our battalion named Warren. He was on duty with
his platoon in the fire trench one afternoon when orders came up from
the rear that he had been granted seven days' leave for Blighty, and
would be relieved at five o'clock to proceed to England.
He was tickled to death at these welcome tidings and regaled his more
or less envious mates beside him on the fire step with the good times
in store for him. He figured it out that in two days' time he would
arrive at Waterloo Station, London, and then--seven days' bliss!
At about five minutes to five he started to fidget with his rifle, and
then suddenly springing up on the fire step with a muttered, "I'll
send over a couple of souvenirs to Fritz, so that he'll miss me when I
leave," he stuck his rifle over the top and fired two shots, when
"crack" went a bullet and he tumbled off the step, fell into the mud
at the bottom of the trench, and lay still in a huddled heap with a
bullet hole in his forehead.
At about the time he expected to arrive at Waterloo Station he was
laid to rest in a little cemetery behind the lines. He had gone to
Blighty.
In the trenches one can never tell,--it is not safe to plan very far
ahead.
After "stand down" the men sit on the fire step or repair to their
respective dugouts and wait for the "rum issue" to materialize.
Immediately following the rum, comes breakfast, brought up from the
rear. Sleeping is then in order unless some special work turns up.
Around 12.30 dinner shows up. When this is eaten the men try to amuse
themselves until "tea" appears at about four o'clock, then "stand to"
and they carry on as before.
While in rest billets Tommy gets up about six in the morning, washes
up, answers roll call, is inspected by his platoon officer, and has
breakfast. At 8.45 he parades (drills) with his company or goes on
fatigue according to the orders which have been read out by the
Orderly Sergeant the night previous.
Between 11.30 and noon he is dismissed, has his dinner, and is "on his
own" for the remainder of the day, unless he has clicked for a digging
or working party, and so it goes on from day to day, always "looping
the loop" and looking forward to Peace and Blighty.
Sometimes, while engaged in a "cootie" hunt you think. Strange to say,
but it is a fact, while Tommy is searching his shirt, serious thoughts
come to him. Many a time, when performing this operation, I have tried
to figure out the outcome of the war and what will happen to me.
My thoughts generally ran in this channel:
Will I emerge safely from the next attack? If I do, will I skin
through the following one, and so on? While your mind is wandering
into the future it is likely to be rudely brought to earth by a Tommy
interrupting with, "What's good for rheumatism?"
Then you have something else to think of. Will you come out of this
war crippled and tied into knots with rheumatism, caused by the wet
and mud of trenches and dugouts? You give it up as a bad job and
generally saunter over to the nearest estaminet to drown your moody
forebodings in a glass of sickening French beer, or to try your luck
at the always present game of "House." You can hear the sing-song
voice of a Tommy droning out the numbers as he extracts the little
squares of cardboard from the bag between his feet.