GAS ATTACKS AND SPIES
Three days after we had silenced Fritz, the Germans sent over gas. It
did not catch us unawares, because the wind had been made to order,
that is, it was blowing from the German trenches towards ours at the
rate of about five miles per hour.
Warnings had been passed down the trench to keep a sharp lookout for
gas.
We had a new man at the periscope, on this afternoon in question; I
was sitting on the fire step, cleaning my rifle, when he called out to
me:
"There's a sort of greenish, yellow cloud rolling along the ground out
in front, it's coming--"
But I waited for no more, grabbing my bayonet, which was detached from
the rifle, I gave the alarm by banging an empty shell case, which was
hanging near the periscope. At the same instant, gongs started ringing
down the trench, the signal for Tommy to don his respirator, or smoke
helmet, as we call it.
Gas travels quickly, so you must not lose any time; you generally have
about eighteen or twenty seconds in which to adjust your gas helmet.
A gas helmet is made of cloth, treated with chemicals. There are two
windows, or glass eyes, in it, through which you can see. Inside there
is a rubber-covered tube, which goes in the mouth, You breathe through
your nose; the gas, passing through the cloth helmet, is neutralized
by the action of the chemicals. The foul air is exhaled through the
tube in the mouth, this tube being so constructed that it prevents the
inhaling of the outside air or gas. One helmet is good for five hours
of the strongest gas. Each Tommy carries two of them slung around his
shoulder in a waterproof canvas bag. He must wear this bag at all
times, even while sleeping. To change a defective helmet, you take out
the new one, hold your breath, pull the old one off, placing the new
one over your head, tucking in the loose ends under the collar of your
tunic.
For a minute, pandemonium reigned in our trench,--Tommies adjusting
their helmets, bombers running here and there, and men turning out of
the dugouts with fixed bayonets, to man the fire step.
Reinforcements were pouring out of the communication trenches.
Our gun's crew were busy mounting the machine gun on the parapet and
bringing up extra ammunition from the dugout.
German gas is heavier than air and soon fills the trenches and
dugouts, where it has been known to lurk for two or three days, until
the air is purified by means of large chemical sprayers.
We had to work quickly, as Fritz generally follows the gas with an
infantry attack.
A company man on our right was too slow in getting on his helmet; he
sank to the ground, clutching at his throat, and after a few spasmodic
twisting, went West (died). It was horrible to see him die, but we
were powerless to help him. In the corner of a traverse, a little,
muddy cur dog, one of the company's pets, was lying dead, with his two
paws over his nose.
It's the animals that suffer the most, the horses, mules, cattle,
dogs, cats, and rats, they having no helmets to save them. Tommy does
not sympathize with rats in a gas attack.
At times, gas has been known to travel, with dire results, fifteen
miles behind the lines.
A gas, or smoke helmet, as it is called, at the best is a
vile-smelling thing, and it is not long before one gets a violent
headache from wearing it.
Our eighteen-pounders were bursting in No Man's Land, in an effort, by
the artillery, to disperse the gas clouds.
The fire step was lined with crouching men, bayonets fixed, and bombs
near at hand to repel the expected attack.
Our artillery had put a barrage of curtain fire on the German lines,
to try and break up their attack and keep back reinforcements.
I trained my machine gun on their trench and its bullets were raking
the parapet.
Then over they came, bayonets glistening. In their respirators, which
have a large snout in front, they looked like some horrible nightmare.
All along our trench, rifles and machine guns spoke, our shrapnel was
bursting over their heads. They went down in heaps, but new ones took
the place of the fallen. Nothing could stop that mad rush. The Germans
reached our barbed wire, which had previously been demolished by their
shells, then it was bomb against bomb, and the devil for all.
{Illustration: A Gas Helmet.}
Suddenly, my head seemed to burst from a loud "crack" in my ear. Then
my head began to swim, throat got dry, and a heavy pressure on the
lungs warned me that my helmet was leaking. Turning my gun over to No.
2, I changed helmets.
The trench started to wind like a snake, and sandbags appeared to be
floating in the air. The noise was horrible; I sank onto the fire
step, needles seemed to be pricking my flesh, then blackness.
I was awakened by one of my mates removing my smoke helmet. How
delicious that cool, fresh air felt in my lungs.
A strong wind had arisen and dispersed the gas.
They told me that I had been "out" for three hours; they thought I was
dead.
The attack had been repulsed after a hard fight. Twice the Germans had
gained a foothold in our trench, but had been driven out by
counter-attacks. The trench was filled with their dead and ours.
Through a periscope, I counted eighteen dead Germans in our wire; they
were a ghastly sight in their horrible-looking respirators.
I examined my first smoke helmet, a bullet had gone through it on the
left side, just grazing my ear, the gas had penetrated through the
hole made in the cloth.
Out of our crew of six, we lost two killed and two wounded.
That night we buried all of the dead, excepting those in No Man's
Land. In death there is not much distinction, friend and foe are
treated alike.
After the wind had dispersed the gas, the R.A.M.C. got busy with their
chemical sprayers, spraying out the dugouts and low parts of the
trenches to dissipate any fumes of the German gas which may have been
lurking in same.
Two days after the gas attack, I was sent to Division Headquarters, in
answer to an order requesting that captains of units should detail a
man whom they thought capable of passing an examination for the
Divisional Intelligence Department.
Before leaving for this assignment I went along the front-line trench
saying good-bye to my mates and lording it over them, telling them
that I had clicked a cushy job behind the lines, and how sorry I felt
that they had to stay in the front line and argue out the war with
Fritz. They were envious but still good natured, and as I left the
trench to go to the rear they shouted after me:
"Good luck, Yank, old boy, don't forget to send up a few fags to
your old mates."
I promised to do this and left.
I reported at Headquarters with sixteen others and passed the required
examination. Out of the sixteen applicants four were selected.
I was highly elated because I was, as I thought, in for a cushy job
back at the base.
The next morning the four reported to Division Headquarters for
instructions. Two of the men were sent to large towns in the rear of
the lines with an easy job. When it came our turn, the officer told us
we were good men and had passed a very creditable examination.
My tin hat began to get too small for me, and I noted that the other
man, Atwell, by name, was sticking his chest out more than usual.
The officer continued: "I think I can use you two men to great
advantage in the front line. Here are your orders and instructions,
also the pass which gives you full authority as special M. P. detailed
on intelligence work. Report at the front line according to your
instructions. It is risky work and I wish you both the best of luck."
My heart dropped to zero and Atwell's face was a study. We saluted and
left.
That wishing us the "best of luck" sounded very ominous in our ears;
if he had said "I wish you both a swift and painless death" it would
have been more to the point.
When we had read our instructions we knew we were in for it good and
plenty. What Atwell said is not fit for publication, but I strongly
seconded his opinion of the War, Army, and Divisional Headquarters in
general.
After a bit our spirits rose. We were full-fledged spy-catchers,
because our instructions and orders said so.
We immediately reported to the nearest French estaminet and had
several glasses of muddy water, which they called beer. After drinking
our beer we left the estaminet and hailed an empty ambulance.
After showing the driver our passes we got in. The driver was going to
the part of the line where we had to report.
The ambulance was a Ford and lived up to its reputation.
How the wounded ever survived a ride in it was inexplicable to me. It
was worse than riding on a gun carriage over a rocky road.
The driver of the ambulance was a corporal of the R.A.M.C., and he had
the "wind up," that is, he had an aversion to being under fire.
I was riding on the seat with him while Atwell was sitting in the
ambulance, with his legs hanging out of the back.
As we passed through a shell-destroyed village a mounted military
policeman stopped us and informed the driver to be very careful when
we got out on the open road, as it was very dangerous, because the
Germans lately had acquired the habit of shelling it. The Corporal
asked the trooper if there was any other way around, and was informed
that there was not. Upon this he got very nervous, and wanted to turn
back, but we insisted that he proceed and explained to him that he
would get into serious trouble with his commanding officer if he
returned without orders; we wanted to ride, not walk.
From his conversation we learned that he had recently come from
England with a draft and had never been under fire, hence, his
nervousness.
We convinced him that there was not much danger, and he appeared
greatly relieved.
When we at last turned into the open road, we were not so confident.
On each side there had been a line of trees, but now, all that was
left of them were torn and battered stumps. The fields on each side of
the road were dotted with recent shell holes, and we passed several in
the road itself. We had gone about half a mile when a shell came
whistling through the air, and burst in a field about three hundred
yards to our right. Another soon followed this one, and burst on the
edge of the road about four hundred yards in front of us.
I told the driver to throw in his speed clutch, as we must be in sight
of the Germans. I knew the signs; that battery was ranging for us, and
the quicker we got out of its zone of fire the better. The driver was
trembling like a leaf, and every minute I expected him to pile us up
in the ditch. I preferred the German fire.
In the back, Atwell was holding onto the straps for dear life and was
singing at the top of his voice,
We beat you at the Marne,
We beat you at the Aisne,
We gave you hell at Neuve Chapelle,
And here we are again.
Just then we hit a small shell hole and nearly capsized. Upon a loud
yell from the rear I looked behind, and there was Atwell sitting in
the middle of the road, shaking his fist at us. His equipment, which
he had taken off upon getting into the ambulance, was strung out on
the ground, and his rifle was in the ditch.
I shouted to the driver to stop, and in his nervousness he put on the
brakes. We nearly pitched out head first. But the applying of those
brakes saved our lives. The next instant there was a blinding flash
and a deafening report. All that I remember is that I was flying
through the air, and wondering if I would land in a soft spot. Then
the lights went out.
When I came to, Atwell was pouring water on my head out of his bottle.
On the other side of the road, the Corporal was sitting, rubbing a
lump on his forehead with his left hand, while his right arm was bound
up in a blood-soaked bandage. He was moaning very loudly. I had an
awful headache, and the skin on the left side of my face was full of
gravel, and the blood was trickling from my nose.
But that ambulance was turned over in the ditch, and was perforated
with holes from fragments of the shell. One of the front wheels was
slowly revolving, so I could not have been "out" for a long period.
If Mr. Ford could have seen that car, his "Peace at Any Price"
conviction would have been materially strengthened, and he would have
immediately fitted out another "peace ship."
The shells were still screaming overhead, but the battery had raised
its fire, and they were bursting in a little wood, about half a mile
from us.
Atwell spoke up, "I wish that officer hadn't wished us the best o'
luck." Then he commenced swearing. I couldn't help laughing, though my
head was nigh to bursting.
Slowly rising to my feet I felt myself all over to make sure that
there were no broken bones. But outside of a few bruises and
scratches, I was all right. The Corporal was still moaning, but more
from shock than pain. A shell splinter had gone through the flesh of
his right forearm. Atwell and I, from our first-aid pouches, put a
tourniquet on his arm to stop the bleeding, and then gathered up our
equipment.
We realized that we were in a dangerous spot. At any minute a shell
might drop on the road and finish us off. The village we had left was
not very far, so we told the Corporal he had better go back to it and
get his arm dressed, and then report the fact of the destruction of
the ambulance to the military police. He was well able to walk, so he
set off in the direction of the village, while Atwell and I continued
our way on foot.
Without further mishap we arrived at our destination, and reported to
Brigade Headquarters for rations and billets.
That night we slept in the Battalion Sergeant-Major's dugout. The next
morning I went to a first-aid post and had the gravel picked out of my
face.
The instructions we received from Division Headquarters read that we
were out to catch spies, patrol trenches, search German dead,
reconnoiter in No Man's Land, and take part in trench raids, and
prevent the robbing of the dead.
I had a pass which would allow me to go anywhere at any time in the
sector of the line held by our division. It also gave me authority to
stop and search ambulances, motor lorries, wagons, and even officers
and soldiers, whenever my suspicions deemed it necessary. Atwell and I
were allowed to work together or singly,--it was left to our
judgment. We decided to team up.
Atwell was a good companion and very entertaining. He had an utter
contempt for danger but was not foolhardy. At swearing he was a
wonder. A cavalry regiment would have been proud of him. Though born
in England, he had spent several years in New York. He was about six
feet one, and as strong as an ox. I am five feet five in height, so we
looked like "Bud" Fisher's "Mutt and Jeff" when together.
We took up our quarters in a large dugout of the Royal Engineers, and
mapped out our future actions. This dugout was on the edge of a large
cemetery, and several times at night in returning to it, we got many a
fall stumbling over the graves of English, French, and Germans. Atwell
on these occasions never indulged in swearing, though at any other
time, at the least stumble, he would turn the air blue.
A certain section of our trenches was held by the Royal Irish Rifles.
For several days a very strong rumor went the rounds that a German spy
was in our midst. This spy was supposed to be dressed in the uniform
of a British Staff Officer. Several stories had been told about an
officer wearing a red band around his cap, who patrolled the
front-line and communication trenches asking suspicious questions as
to location of batteries, machine-gun emplacements, and trench
mortars. If a shell dropped in a battery, on a machine gun, or even
near a dugout, this spy was blamed.
The rumor gained such strength that an order was issued for all troops
to immediately place under arrest anyone answering to the description
of the spy.
Atwell and I were on the QUI VIVE. We constantly patrolled the
trenches at night, and even in the day, but the spy always eluded us.
One day, while in a communication trench, we were horrified to see our
Brigadier-General, Old Pepper, being brought down it by a big private
of the Royal Irish Rifles. The General was walking in front, and the
private with fixed bayonet was following him in the rear.
We saluted as the General passed us. The Irishman had a broad grin on
his face and we could scarcely believe our eyes--the General was
under arrest. After passing a few feet beyond us, the General turned,
and said in a wrathful voice to Atwell:
"Tell this d--n fool who I am. He's arrested me as a spy."
Atwell was speechless. The sentry butted in with:
"None o' that gassin' out o' you. Back to Headquarters you goes, Mr.
Fritz. Open that face o' yours again, an' I'll dent in your napper
with the butt o' me rifle."
The General's face was a sight to behold. He was fairly boiling over
with rage, but he shut up.
Atwell tried to get in front of the sentry to explain to him that it
really was the General he had under arrest, but the sentry threatened
to run his bayonet through him, and would have done it, too. So Atwell
stepped aside, and remained silent. I was nearly bursting with
suppressed laughter. One word, and I would have exploded. It is not
exactly diplomatic to laugh at your General in such a predicament.
The sentry and his prisoner arrived at Brigade Headquarters with
disastrous results to the sentry.
The joke was that the General had personally issued the order for the
spy's arrest. It was a habit of the General to walk through the
trenches on rounds of inspection, unattended by any of his staff. The
Irishman, being new in the regiment, had never seen the General
before, so when he came across him alone in a communication trench, he
promptly put him under arrest. Brigadier-generals wear a red band
around their caps.
Next day we passed the Irishman tied to the wheel of a limber, the
beginning of his sentence of twenty-one days, Field Punishment No. I.
Never before have I seen such a woebegone expression on a man's face.
For several days, Atwell and I made ourselves scarce around Brigade
Headquarters. We did not want to meet the General.
The spy was never caught.