TRENCHES
The real, well-made, manicured trench is from two and a half to three
feet wide and eight or ten feet deep. The narrower the trench, the
better. It gives the least space for German shells to drop in and blow
occupants out. The more crooked the trench the better. The enemy has
smaller chance to make an enfilading (raking lengthwise) fire. Here only
are narrowness and crookedness virtues.
Each trench is embellished with channels, mines, saps, tunnels,
subterranean passages, and bomb proof structures of various sorts. Out
in front, are from ten to fifty yards of barbed wire entanglements,
through which a Jack rabbit could not go without getting hung up. The
German has about the same arrangement on his side. That piece of open
ground between the German wire and the French wire is known as
“No-Man’s-Land.” In the night, patrols of men, German and French,
promenade this strip, to guard against surprise attacks, and make
observations of the enemy.
Patrols often meet in conflict. Some never come back. Others, wounded,
must lie in shell holes, awaiting an opportunity to return. At the sign
of an attack, darkness is lighted by star shells. It is then necessary
for the patrol to get back to the wire-cut lane, or tunneled hole under
the wires where they went out, their only refuge and chance for safety.
Back of the first line trench is the second, back of that a third. In
some places, there are a dozen lines of trenches, different distances
apart, varying with local conditions. From the rear, at right angles,
interweaving like meshes of a net, are the communication and auxiliary
branches through which men bring up supplies, provisions and ammunition.
In the front line trenches, in addition to the infantry’s rifles and
grenades, are machine guns and trench mortars. Around the second line,
the 75’s and field artillery. About the third line, with the reserves,
stand heavy artillery. So, when one side attacks the other, they must
cross that open “No-Man’s-Land,” go through these barbed wire
entanglements, meet the rifle fire and grenades of the infantry, and
those three rows of artillery. You can readily see why the line remains
stationary along the front for so long, also how, when it has been
broken or bent, there has been such great loss of life.
It was in a bomb proof shelter of a first line trench, in the middle of
the night, at Sillery-Sur-Marne, that I met the “American,” whose real
name was Dubois. I did not then understand French and had been placed on
guard by a French corporal who could not speak English. He pointed to
the hole, then at the Boche trench opposite, and walked away. The post
was well protected by sandbags and solid timbers overhead, with an
observation hole, one inch deep by three inches wide, cut into armor
plate, in front. The usual, intermittent warfare was in progress, and it
suddenly developed into a battle. The post was out on an angle. Rifle
clashes were all about. No one was near in the open trench. So, getting
uneasy, I became afraid I was cut off or left behind.
I started toward the trench just as a big shell burst there. I ducked
back, concluded the sheltered post was better than the open trench, then
glued my eye on the 1 × 3 observation hole. Yes, no doubt, the Germans
were advancing in mass formation. I could see, through the little hole,
against the sky line, the bayonets on their guns. A noise near my ear
compelled my attention. Then I felt and saw better. Those bayonets were
hairs, sticking straight out from a big, fat, impudent rat, who sniffed
along and looked through the hole squarely into my eye. I spat at the
rat, which retreated a few inches, then stopped to await developments.
This nerve angered me and I started to go outside to throw a rock at the
rodent, when a voice behind said in English,—“Damn it, that cussed
sergeant has plugged it up.”
From the shelter I could see a nondescript figure clad in an old,
abbreviated bath-robe, tassels hanging down in front, shoes unlaced,
rifle in hand, ruefully gazing at a new stack of sandbags, which blocked
a small exit into “No-Man’s-Land.” He might have been a soldier but he
did not look it. He might have been French, but America was stamped all
over that free-moving, powerful figure, in his quick acting, decisive
manner and set jaws, square-cut, like a paving block.
Thus, we two Americans, who had arrived from different directions, each
animated by the same idea, sat down at the jumping off place amid those
unnatural surroundings and got acquainted.
It was bizarre. The devilishness, the beauty, alternately, shocked the
feelings or soothed the senses. Darkness and grotesque shadows,
intermingled with colored illumination, scattering streams of golden
hail, followed by red flame and acolytes, while sharp, white streaks of
cannon fire winked, blinked, and were lost in the never-ending din.
Between the occasional roll of musketry and the rat-rat-tat-tat of
machine guns, we watched the pyrotechnic display and talked.
Yes, he was an American, and had been ten months without a furlough. He
had been out in front sniping all the afternoon. That cheapskate
sergeant, who is always nosing around, must have missed him and closed
up the outlet.
“Yes,” he soliloquized, “the world is not fit to live in any more. The
Kaiser has mobilized God Almighty. The Crown Prince said he could bring
the Devil from hell with his brave German band. The Mexicans broke up my
business and destroyed my happy home. Here in France, they made me take
off my good clothes and don these glad rags. This bath robe is all I
have left of my ancient grandeur—and there is not much of it, but it is
all wool and a yard wide—not as long as it used to be, but it is warm. I
know it looks like hell, but it is a sort of comfort to me, and is
associated with happier days.
“Yes,” he ruminated, ”if I am not careful I won’t have enough left to
make a pocket handkerchief. Here I have taken five or six pair of
Russian socks from it, and bandaged up Pierre’s wound, and I only have
enough for four more pairs of socks after I have taken some pieces to
clean my rifle with.”
He was a man of unusual history, even for the Legion. Some months
previous, seeing an Alsatian officer strike a small man, the American
stepped up and said: “Why don’t you take a man your own size?” For
answer the officer pulled a revolver and thrust it at his breast.
Dubois, gazing down through the eyes of the officer, clear into his
heart, said: “Shoot, damn you, shoot. You dare not; you have not got the
nerve!”
He was an expert gymnast. He played the piano, accompanying the singers
at concerts, during repose. When encored, he came back with a song in
French. In conquered Alsace, he spoke German with the natives.
On the day we made the 48-kilometer march to the summit of Ballon
d’Alsace and back, while the company was resting Dubois was striding up
and down, knapsack on back, hands in pockets. I said: “What are you
doing? Can’t you sit down and rest?”
“Oh,” he replied, “I was telling the lieutenant that instead of poking
along with these short, fiddling steps, the men should march out like
this,—like we do in America!” It is a fact that the French take the
longest strides, and are the best marchers in the world!