BATTERY D 238
The day after this I received the glad tidings that I would occupy the
machine-gunners' dugout right near the advanced artillery observation
post. This dugout was a roomy affair, dry as tinder, and real cots in
it. These cots had been made by the R.E.'s who had previously occupied
the dugout. I was the first to enter and promptly made a sign board
with my name and number on it and suspended it from the foot of the
most comfortable cot therein.
In the trenches, it is always "first come, first served," and this is
lived up to by all.
Two R.F.A. men (Royal Field Artillery) from the nearby observation
post were allowed the privilege of stopping in this dugout while off
duty.
One of these men, Bombardier Wilson by name, who belonged to Battery D
238, seemed to take a liking to me, and I returned this feeling.
In two days' time we were pretty chummy, and he told me how his
battery in the early days of the war had put over a stunt on Old
Pepper, and had gotten away with it.
I will endeavor to give the story as far as memory will permit in his
own words:
"I came out with the First Expeditionary Force, and like all the rest,
thought we would have the enemy licked in jig time, and be able to eat
Christmas dinner at home. Well, so far, I have eaten two Christmas
dinners in the trenches, and am liable to eat two more, the way things
are pointing. That is, if Fritz don't drop a 'whizz-bang' on me, and
send me to Blighty. Sometimes I wish I would get hit, because it's no
great picnic out here, and twenty-two months of it makes you fed up.
"It's fairly cushy now compared to what it used to be, although I
admit this trench is a trifle rough. Now, we send over five shells to
their one. We are getting our own back, but in the early days it was
different. Then you had to take everything without a reply. In fact,
we would get twenty shells in return for every one we sent over. Fritz
seemed to enjoy it, but we British didn't, we were the sufferers. Just
one casualty after another. Sometimes whole platoons would disappear,
especially when a 'Jack Johnson' plunked into their middle. It got so
bad, that a fellow, when writing home, wouldn't ask for any cigarettes
to be sent out, because he was afraid he wouldn't be there to receive
them.
"After the drive to Paris was turned back, trench warfare started. Our
General grabbed a map, drew a pencil line across it, and said, 'Dig
here,' then he went back to his tea, and Tommy armed himself with a
pick and shovel, and started digging. He's been digging ever since.
"Of course, we dug those trenches at night, but it was hot work what
with the rifle and machinegun fire. The stretcher-bearers worked
harder than the diggers.
"Those trenches, bloomin' ditches, I call them, were a nightmare. They
were only about five feet deep, and you used to get the backache from
bending down. It wasn't exactly safe to stand upright either, because
as soon as your napper showed over the top, a bullet would bounce off
it, or else come so close it would make your hair stand.
"We used to fill sandbags and stick them on top of the parapet to make
it higher, but no use, they would be there about an hour, and then
Fritz would turn loose and blow them to bits. My neck used to be sore
from ducking shells and bullets.
"Where my battery was stationed, a hasty trench had been dug, which
the boys nicknamed 'Suicide Ditch,' and believe me, Yank, this was the
original 'Suicide Ditch'. All the others are imitations.
"When a fellow went into that trench, it was an even gamble that he
would come out on a stretcher. At one time, a Scotch battalion held
it, and when they heard the betting was even money that they'd come
out on stretchers, they grabbed all the bets in sight. Like a lot of
bally idiots several of the battery men fell for their game, and put
up real money. The 'Jocks' suffered a lot of casualties, and the
prospects looked bright for the battery men to collect some easy
money. So when the battalion was relieved, the gamblers lined up.
Several 'Jocks' got their money for emerging safely, but the ones who
clicked it, weren't there to pay. The artillerymen had never thought
it out that way. Those Scotties were bound to be sure winners, no
matter how the wind blew. So take a tip from me, never bet with a
Scottie, 'cause you'll lose money.
"At one part of our trench where a communication trench joined the
front line, a Tommy had stuck up a wooden sign-post with three hands
or arms on it. One of the hands pointing to the German lines read, 'To
Berlin,' the one pointing down the communication trench read, 'To
Blighty,' while the other said, 'Suicide Ditch, Change Here for
Stretchers.'
"Farther down from this guide post the trench ran through an old
orchard. On the edge of this orchard our battery had constructed an
advanced observation post. The trees screened it from the enemy airmen
and the roof was turfed. It wasn't cushy like ours, no timber or
concrete reinforcements, just walls and roof of sandbags. From it, a
splendid view of the German lines could be obtained. This post wasn't
exactly safe. It was a hot corner, shells plunking all around, and the
bullets cutting leaves off the trees. Many a time when relieving the
signaler at the phone, I had to crawl on my belly like a worm to keep
from being hit.
"It was an observation post sure enough. That's all the use it was.
Just observe all day, but never a message back for our battery to open
up. You see, at this point of the line there were strict orders not to
fire a shell, unless specially ordered to do so from Brigade
Headquarters. Blime me, if anyone disobeyed that command, our
General--yes, it was Old Pepper,--would have courtmartialed the whole
Expeditionary Force. Nobody went out of their way to disobey Old
Pepper in those days, because he couldn't be called a parson; he was
more like a pirate. If at any time the devil should feel lonely, and
sigh for a proper mate, Old Pepper would get the first call. Pacing
the Germans wasn't half bad compared with an interview with that old
firebrand.
"If a company or battalion should give way a few yards against a
superior force of Boches, Old Pepper would send for the commanding
officer. In about half an hour the officer would come back with his
face the color of a brick, and in a few hours, what was left of his
command, would be holding their original position.
"I have seen an officer, who wouldn't say 'damn' for a thousand quid,
spend five minutes with the old boy, and when he returned, the flow of
language from his lips would make a navvy blush for shame.
"What I am going to tell you is how two of us put it over on the old
scamp, and got away with it. It was a risky thing, too, because Old
Pepper wouldn't have been exactly mild with us if he had got next to
the game.
"Me and my mate, a lad named Harry Cassell, a Bombardier in D 238
Battery, or Lance-Corporal, as you call it in the infantry, used to
relieve the telephonists. We would do two hours on and four off. I
would be on duty in the advanced observation post, while he would be
at the other end of the wire in the battery dugout signaling station.
We were supposed to send through orders for the battery to fire when
ordered to do so by the observation officer in the advanced post. But
very few messages were sent. It was only in case of an actual attack
that we would get a chance to earn our 'two and six' a day. You see,
Old Pepper had issued orders not to fire except when the orders came
from him. And with Old Pepper orders is orders, and made to obey.
"The Germans must have known about these orders, for even in the day
their transports and troops used to expose themselves as if they were
on parade. This sure got up our nose, sitting there day after day,
with fine targets in front of us but unable to send over a shell. We
heartily cussed Old Pepper, his orders, the government, the people at
home, and everything in general. But the Boches didn't mind cussing,
and got very careless. Blime me, they were bally insulting. Used to,
when using a certain road, throw their caps into the air as a taunt at
our helplessness.
"Cassell had been a telegrapher in civil life and joined up when war
was declared. As for me, I knew Morse, learned it at the Signaler's
School back in 1910. With an officer in the observation post, we could
not carry on the kind of conversation that's usual between two mates,
so we used the Morse code. To send, one of us would tap the
transmitter with his finger nails, and the one on the other end would
get it through the receiver. Many an hour was whiled away in this
manner passing compliments back and forth.
"In the observation post, the officer used to sit for hours with a
powerful pair of field glasses to his eyes. Through a cleverly
concealed loophole he would scan the ground behind the German
trenches, looking for targets, and finding many. This officer, Captain
A--by name, had a habit of talking out loud to himself. Sometimes he
would vent his opinion, same as a common private does when he's
wrought up. Once upon a time the Captain had been on Old Pepper's
staff, so he could cuss and blind in the most approved style. Got to
be sort of a habit with him.
"About six thousand yards from us, behind the German lines, was a road
in plain view of our post. For the last three days, Fritz had brought
companies of troops down this road in broad daylight. They were never
shelled. Whenever this happened, the Captain would froth at the mouth
and let out a volume of Old Pepper's religion which used to make me
love him.
"Every battery has a range chart on which distinctive landmarks are
noted, with the range for each. These landmarks are called targets,
and are numbered. On our battery's chart, that road was called 'Target
Seventeen, Range 6000, three degrees, thirty minutes left'. D 238
Battery consisted of four '4.5' howitzers, and fired a thirty-five
pound H. E. shell. As you know, H. E. means 'high explosive'. I don't
like bumming up my own battery, but we had a record in the Division
for direct hits, and our boys were just pining away for a chance to
exhibit their skill in the eyes of Fritz.
"On the afternoon of the fourth day of Fritz's contemptuous use of the
road mentioned, the Captain and I were at our posts as usual. Fritz
was strafing us pretty rough, just like he's doing now. The shells
were playing leapfrog all through that orchard.
"I was carrying on a conversation in our 'tap' code with Cassell at
the other end. It ran something like this:
"'Say, Cassell, how would you like to be in the saloon bar of the
King's Arms down Rye Lane with a bottle of Bass in front of you, and
that blonde barmaid waiting to fill 'em up again?'
"Cassell had a fancy for that particular blonde. The answer came back
in the shape of a volley of cusses. I changed the subject.
"After awhile our talk veered round to the way the Boches had been
exposing themselves on the road known on the chart as Target
Seventeen. What we said about those Boches would never have passed the
Reichstag, though I believe it would have gone through our Censor
easily enough.
"The bursting shells were making such a din that I packed up talking
and took to watching the Captain. He was fidgeting around on an old
sandbag with the glass to his eye. Occasionally he would let out a
grunt, and make some remark I couldn't hear on account of the noise,
but I guessed what it was all right. Fritz was getting fresh again on
that road.
"Cassell had been sending in the 'tap code' to me, but I was fed up
and didn't bother with it. Then he sent O. S., and I was all
attention, for this was a call used between us which meant that
something important was on. I was all ears in an instant. Then Cassell
turned loose.
"'You blankety-blank dud, I have been trying to raise you for fifteen
minutes. What's the matter, are you asleep?' (Just as if anyone could
have slept in that infernal racket!) 'Never mind framing a nasty
answer. Just listen.'
"'Are you game for putting something over on the Boches, and Old
Pepper all in one?'
"I answered that I was game enough when it came to putting it over the
Boches, but confessed that I had a weakening of the spine, even at the
mention of Old Pepper's name.
"He came back with, 'It's so absurdly easy and simple that there is no
chance of the old heathen rumbling it. Anyway, if we're caught, I'll
take the blame.'
"Under those conditions I told him to spit out his scheme. It was so
daring and simple that it took my breath away. This is what he
proposed:
"If the Boches should use that road again, to send by the tap system
the target and range. I had previously told him about our Captain
talking out loud as if he were sending through orders. Well, if this
happened, I was to send the dope to Cassell and he would transmit it
to the Battery Commander as officially coming through the observation
post. Then the battery would open up. Afterwards, during the
investigation, Cassell would swear he received it direct. They would
have to believe him, because it was impossible from his post in the
battery dugout to know that the road was being used at that time by
the Germans. And also it was impossible for him to give the target,
range, and degrees. You know a battery chart is not passed around
among the men like a newspaper from Blighty. From him, the
investigation would go to the observation post, and the observing
officer could truthfully swear that I had not sent the message by
'phone' and that no orders to fire had been issued by him. The
investigators would then be up in the air, we would be safe, the
Boches would receive a good bashing, and we would get our own back on
Old Pepper. It was too good to be true. I gleefully fell in with the
scheme, and told Cassell I was his meat.
"Then I waited with beating heart, and watched the Captain like a
hawk.
"He was beginning to fidget again and was drumming on the sandbags
with his feet. At last, turning to me, he said:
"'Wilson, this army is a blankety blank washout. What's the use of
having artillery if it is not allowed to fire? The government at home
ought to be hanged with some of their red tape. It's through them that
we have no shells!'
"I answered, 'Yes sir,' and started sending this opinion over the wire
to Cassell, but the Captain interrupted me with:
'Keep those infernal fingers still. What's the matter, getting the
nerves? When I'm talking to you, pay attention.'
"My heart sank. Supposing he had rumbled that tapping, then all would
be up with our plan. I stopped drumming with my fingers, and said:
"'Beg your pardon, sir, just a habit with me.'
"'And a damned silly one, too,' he answered, turning to his glasses
again, and I knew I was safe. He had not tumbled to the meaning of
that tapping.
"All at once, without turning round, he exclaimed:
'Well, of all the nerve I've ever run across, this takes the cake.
Those ---- Boches are using that road again. Blind my eyes, this time
it is a whole Brigade of them, transports and all. What a pretty
target for our '4.5's.' The beggars know we won't fire. A damned shame
I call it. Oh, just for a chance to turn D 238 loose on them.'
"I was trembling with excitement. From repeated stolen glances at
the Captain's range chart, that road with its range was burned into my
mind.
"Over the wire I tapped, 'D 238 Battery, Target Seventeen, Range 6000,
three degrees, thirty minutes, left, Salvo, Fire.' Cassell O. E.'d my
message, and with the receiver pressed against my ear, I waited and
listened. In a couple of minutes very faintly over the wire came the
voice of our Battery Commander issuing the order:
'D 238 Battery. Salvo! Fire!'
"Then a roar through the receiver as the four guns belched forth, a
screaming and whistling overhead, and the shells were on their way.
"The Captain jumped as if he were shot, and let out a great big
expressive 'Damn,' and eagerly turned his glasses in the direction of
the German road. I also strained my eyes watching that target. Four
black clouds of dust rose up right in the middle of the German column.
Four direct hits-another record for D 238.
"The shells kept on whistling overhead, and I had counted twenty-four
of them when the firing suddenly ceased. When the smoke and dust
clouds lifted, the destruction on that road was awful. Overturned
limbers and guns, wagons smashed up, troops fleeing in all directions.
The road and roadside were spotted all over with little field gray
dots, the toll of our guns.
"The Captain, in his excitement, had slipped off the sandbag, and was
on his knees in the mud, the glass still at his eye. He was muttering
to himself and slapping his thigh with his disengaged hand. At every
slap a big round juicy cuss word would escape from his lips followed
by:
"'Good, Fine, Marvelous, Pretty Work, Direct Hits, All!
"Then he turned to me and shouted:
"'Wilson, what do you think of it? Did you ever see the like of it in
your life? Damn fine work, I call it.'
"Pretty soon a look of wonder stole over his face, and he exclaimed:
"'But who in hell gave them the order to fire. Range and everything
correct, too. I know I didn't. Wilson, did I give you any order for
the Battery to open up? Of course, I didn't, did I?'
"I answered very emphatically, 'No, sir, you gave no command. Nothing
went through this post. I am absolutely certain on that point, sir.'
"'Of course nothing went through!' he replied. Then his face fell, and
he muttered out loud:
"'But, by Jove, wait till Old Pepper gets wind of this. There'll be
fur flying.'
"Just then Bombardier Cassell cut in on the wire:
"'General's compliments to Captain A--. He directs that officer and
signaler report at the double to Brigade Headquarters as soon as
relieved. Relief is now on the way.'
"In an undertone to me, 'Keep a brass front, Wilson, and for God's
sake, stick.' I answered with, 'Rely on me, mate,' but I was trembling
all over.
"I gave the General's message to the Captain, and started packing up.
"The relief arrived, and as we left the post the Captain said:
"'Now for the fireworks, and I know they'll be good and plenty.' They
were.
"When we arrived at the gun pits, the Battery Commander, the
Sergeant-Major, and Cassell were waiting for us. We fell in line and
the funeral march to Brigade Headquarters started.
"Arriving at Headquarters the Battery Commander was the first to be
interviewed. This was behind closed doors. From the roaring and
explosions of Old Pepper it sounded as if raw meat was being thrown to
the lions. Cassell, later, described it as sounding like a bombing
raid. In about two minutes the officer reappeared. The sweat was
pouring from his forehead, and his face was the color of a beet. He
was speechless. As he passed the Captain he jerked his thumb in the
direction of the lion's den and went out. Then the Captain went in,
and the lions were once again fed. The Captain stayed about twenty
minutes and came out. I couldn't see his face, but the droop in his
shoulders was enough. He looked like a wet hen.
"The door of the General's room opened, and Old Pepper stood in the
doorway. With a roar he shouted:
"'Which one of you is Cassell? Damn me, get your heels together when I
speak! Come in here!'
"Cassell started to say, 'Yes, sir.'
"But Old Pepper roared, 'Shut up!'
"Cassell came out in five minutes. He said nothing, but as he passed
me, he put his tongue into his cheek and winked, then turning to the
closed door, he stuck his thumb to his nose and left.
"Then the Sergeant-Major's turn came. He didn't come out our way.
Judging by the roaring, Old Pepper must have eaten him.
"When the door opened, and the General beckoned to me, my knees
started to play Home, Sweet Home against each other.
"My interview was very short.
"Old Pepper glared at me when I entered, and then let loose.
"'Of course you don't know anything about it. You're just like the
rest. Ought to have a nursing bottle around your neck, and a nipple in
your teeth. Soldiers, by gad, you turn my stomach to look at you. Win
this war, when England sends out such samples as I have in my Brigade!
Not likely! Now, sir, tell me what you don't know about this affair.
Speak up, out with it. Don't be gaping at me like a fish. Spit it
out.'
"I stammered, 'Sir, I know absolutely nothing.'
"'That's easy to see,' he roared; 'that stupid face tells me that.
Shut up. Get out; but I think you are a damned liar just the same.
Back to your battery.'
"I saluted and made my exit.
"That night the Captain sent for us. With fear and trembling we went
to his dugout. He was alone. After saluting, we stood at attention in
front of him and waited. His say was short.
"'Don't you two ever get it into your heads that Morse is a dead
language. I've known it for years. The two of you had better get rid
of that nervous habit of tapping transmitters; it's dangerous. That's
all.'
"We saluted, and were just going out the door of the dugout when the
Captain called us back, and said:
"'Smoke Goldflakes? Yes? Well there are two tins of them on my table.
Go back to the battery, and keep your tongues between your teeth.
Understand?'
"We understood.
"But five weeks afterwards our battery did nothing but extra fatigues.
We were satisfied and so were the men. It was worth it to put one over
on Old Pepper, to say nothing of the injury caused to Fritz's
feelings."
When Wilson had finished his story I looked up, and the dugout was
jammed. An artillery Captain and two officers had also entered and
stayed for the finish. Wilson spat out an enormous quid of tobacco,
looked up, saw the Captain, and got as red as a carnation. The Captain
smiled and left. Wilson whispered to me:
"Blime me, Yank, I see where I click for crucifixion. That Captain is
the same one that chucked us the Goldflakes in his dugout and here I
have been chucking me weight about in his hearing!"
Wilson never clicked his crucifixion.
Quite a contrast to Wilson was another character in our Brigade named
Scott, we called him "Old Scotty" on account of his age. He was
fifty-seven, although looking forty. "Old Scotty" had been born in
the Northwest and had served with the Northwest Mounted Police. He was
a typical cow-puncher and Indian fighter and was a dead shot with the
rifle, and took no pains to disguise this fact from us. He used to
take care of his rifle as if it were a baby. In his spare moments you
could always see him cleaning it or polishing the stock. Woe betide
the man, who by mistake, happened to get hold of this rifle; he soon
found out his error. Scott was as deaf as a mule, and it was amusing
at parade to watch him in the manual of arms, slyly glancing out of
the corner of his eye at the man next to him to see what the order was.
How he passed the doctor was a mystery to us, he must have bluffed his
way through, because he certainly was independent. Beside him the
Fourth of July looked like Good Friday. He wore at the time a large
sombrero, had a Mexican stock saddle over his shoulder, a lariat on
his arm, and a "forty-five" hanging from his hip. Dumping this
paraphernalia on the floor he went up to the recruiting officer and
shouted: "I'm from America, west of the Rockies, and want to join your
damned army. I've got no use for a German and can shoot some. At
Scotland Yard they turned me down; said I was deaf and so I am. I
don't hanker to ship in with a damned mud crunching outfit, but the
cavalry's full, so I guess this regiment's better than none, so trot
out your papers and I'll sign 'em." He told them he was forty and
slipped by. I was on recruiting service at the time he applied for
enlistment.
It was Old Scotty's great ambition to be a sniper or "body snatcher"
as Mr. Atkins calls it. The day that he was detailed as Brigade
Sniper, he celebrated his appointment by blowing the whole platoon to
fags.
Being a Yank, Old Scotty took a liking to me and used to spin some
great yams about the plains, and the whole platoon would drink these
in and ask for more. Ananias was a rookie compared with him.
The ex-plainsman and discipline could not agree, but the officers all
liked him, even if he was hard to manage. So when he was detailed as a
sniper, a sigh of relief went up from the officers' mess.
Old Scotty had the freedom of the Brigade. He used to draw two or
three days' rations and disappear with his glass, range finder, and
rifle, and we would see or hear no more of him, until suddenly he
would reappear with a couple of notches added to those already on the
butt of his rifle. Every time he got a German it meant another notch.
He was proud of these notches.
But after a few months Father Rheumatism got him and he was sent to
Blighty; the air in the wake of his stretcher was blue with curses.
Old Scotty surely could swear; some of his outbursts actually burned
you.
No doubt, at this writing he is "somewhere in Blighty" pussy footing
it on a bridge or along the wall of some munition plant with the "G.
R," or Home Defence Corps.