"CHATS WITH FRITZ"
We were swimming in money, from the receipts of our theatrical
venture, and had forgotten all about the war, when an order came
through that our Brigade would again take over their sector of the
line.
The day that these orders were issued, our Captain assembled the
company and asked for volunteers to go to the Machine Gun School at
St. Omer. I volunteered and was accepted.
Sixteen men from our brigade left for the course in machine gunnery.
This course lasted two weeks and we rejoined our unit and were
assigned to the Brigade Machine Gun Company. It almost broke my heart
to leave my company mates.
The gun we used was the Vickers, Light .303, water cooled.
I was still a member of the Suicide Club, having jumped from the
frying pan into the fire. I was assigned to Section I, Gun No. 2, and
the first time "in" took position in the front-line trench.
During the day our gun would be dismounted on the fire step ready for
instant use. We shared a dugout with the Lewis gunners, at "stand to"
we would mount our gun on the parapet and go on watch beside it until
"stand down" in the morning, then the gun would be dismounted and
again placed in readiness on the fire step.
We did eight days in the front-line trench without anything unusual
happening outside of the ordinary trench routine. On the night that we
were to "carry out," a bombing raid against the German lines was
pulled off. This raiding party consisted of sixty company men, sixteen
bombers, and four Lewis machine guns with their crews.
The raid took the Boches by surprise and was a complete success, the
party bringing back twenty-one prisoners.
The Germans must have been awfully sore, because they turned loose a
barrage of shrapnel, with a few "Minnies" and "whizz bangs"
intermixed. The shells were dropping into our front line like
hailstones.
To get even, we could have left the prisoners in the fire trench, in
charge of the men on guard and let them click Fritz's strafeing but
Tommy does not treat prisoners that way.
Five of them were brought into my dugout and turned over to me so that
they would be safe from the German fire.
In the candlelight, they looked very much shaken, nerves gone and
chalky faces, with the exception of one, a great big fellow. He looked
very much at ease. I liked him from the start.
I got out the rum jar and gave each a nip and passed around some fags,
the old reliable Woodbines. The other prisoners looked their
gratitude, but the big fellow said in English, "Thank you, sir, the
rum is excellent and I appreciate it, also your kindness."
He told me his name was Carl Schmidt, of the 66th Bavarian Light
Infantry; that he had lived six years in New York (knew the city
better than I did), had been to Coney Island and many of our ball
games. He was a regular fan. I couldn't make him believe that Hans
Wagner wasn't the best ball-player in the world.
From New York he had gone to London, where he worked as a waiter in
the Hotel Russell. Just before the war he went home to Germany to see
his parents, the war came and he was conscripted.
{Photo: The Author.}
He told me he was very sorry to hear that London was in ruins from the
Zeppelin raids. I could not convince him otherwise, for hadn't he seen
moving pictures in one of the German cities of St. Paul's Cathedral in
ruins.
I changed the subject because he was so stubborn in his belief. It was
my intention to try and pump him for information as to the methods of
the German snipers, who had been causing us trouble in the last few
days.
I broached the subject and he shut up like a clam. After a few minutes
he very innocently said:
"German snipers get paid rewards for killing the English."
I eagerly asked, "What are they?"
He answered:
"For killing or wounding an English private, the sniper gets one mark.
For killing or wounding an English officer he gets five marks, but if
he kills a Red Cap or English General, the sniper gets twenty-one days
tied to the wheel of a limber as punishment for his carelessness."
Then he paused, waiting for me to bite, I suppose.
I bit all right and asked him why the sniper was, punished for killing
an English general. With a smile he replied:
"Well, you see, if all the English generals were killed, there would
be no one left to make costly mistakes."
I shut him up, he was getting too fresh for a prisoner. After a while
he winked at me and I winked back, then the escort came to take the
prisoners to the rear. I shook hands and wished him "The best of luck
and a safe journey to Blighty."
I liked that prisoner, he was a fine fellow, had an Iron Cross, too. I
advised him to keep it out of sight, or some Tommy would be sending it
home to his girl in Blighty as a souvenir.
One dark and rainy night while on guard we were looking over the top
from the fire step of our front-line trench, when we heard a noise
immediately in front of our barbed wire. The sentry next to me
challenged, "Halt, Who Comes There?" and brought his rifle to the aim.
His challenge was answered in German. A captain in the next traverse
climbed upon the sandbagged parapet to investigate--a brave but
foolhardly deed--"Crack" went a bullet and he tumbled back into the
trench with a hole through his stomach and died a few minutes later. A
lance-corporal in the next platoon was so enraged at the Captain's
death that he chucked a Mills bomb in the direction of the noise with
the shouted warning to us: "Duck your nappers' my lucky lads." A sharp
dynamite report, a flare in front of us, and then silence.
We immediately sent up two star shells, and in their light could see
two dark forms lying on the ground close to our wire. A sergeant and
four Stretcher-bearers went out in front and soon returned, carrying
two limp bodies. Down in the dugout, in the flickering light of three
candles, we saw that they were two German officers, one a captain and
the other an unteroffizier, a rank one grade higher than a
sergeant-major, but below the grade of a lieutenant.
The Captain's face had been almost completely torn away by the bomb's
explosion. The Unteroffizier was alive, breathing with difficulty. In
a few minutes he opened his eyes and blinked in the glare of the
candles.
The pair had evidently been drinking heavily, for the alcohol fumes
were sickening and completely pervaded the dugout. I turned away in
disgust, hating to see a man cross the Great Divide full of booze.
One of our officers could speak German and he questioned the dying
man.
In a faint voice, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, the Unteroffizier
told his story.
There had been a drinking bout among the officers in one of the German
dugouts, the main beverage being champagne. With a drunken leer he
informed us that champagne was plentiful on their side and that it did
not cost them anything either. About seven that night the conversation
had turned to the "contemptible" English, and the Captain had made a
wager that he would hang his cap on the English barbed wire to show
his contempt for the English sentries. The wager was accepted. At
eight o' clock the Captain and he had crept out into No Man's Land to
carry out this wager.
They had gotten about half way across when the drink took effect and
the Captain fell asleep. After about two hours of vain attempts the
Unteroffizier had at last succeeded in waking the Captain, reminded
him of his bet, and warned him that he would be the laughingstock of
the officers' mess if he did not accomplish his object, but the
Captain was trembling all over and insisted on returning to the German
lines. In the darkness they lost their bearings and crawled toward the
English trenches. They reached the barbed wire and were suddenly
challenged by our sentry. Being too drunk to realize that the
challenge was in English, the Captain refused to crawl back. Finally
the Unteroffizier convinced his superior that they were in front of
the English wire. Realizing this too late, the Captain drew his
revolver and with a muttered curse crept blindly toward our trench.
His bullet no doubt killed our Captain.
Then the bomb came over and there he was, dying,--and a good job
too, we thought. The Captain dead? Well, his men wouldn't weep at the
news.
Without giving us any further information the Unteroffizier died.
We searched the bodies for identification disks but they had left
everything behind before starting on their foolhardy errand.
Next afternoon we buried them in our little cemetery apart from the
graves of the Tommies. If you ever go into that cemetery you will see
two little wooden crosses in the corner of the cemetery set away from
the rest.
They read:
Captain German Army Died--1916 Unknown R. I. P.
Unteroffizier German Army Died--1916 Unknown R.I.P.