THE TRENCHES
All the night the frogs go chuckle; all the day the birds are
singing,
In the pond beside the meadow; by the roadway poplar-lined;
In the field between the trenches are a million blossoms
springing
'Twixt the grass of silver bayonets where the lines of battle
wind;
Where man has manned the trenches for the maiming of his kind.
(_From "Soldier Songs."_)
The trench is a world within itself, having customs, joys and griefs
peculiar to its limitations. The inmates can only claim for the most
part a short existence; they have degrees of opulence and poverty, but
the former is far removed from those who are legally heirs to it, and
all the dwellers in the trench commune share their poverty in common.
The word "ours" is on all lips; save for a few relics of outside
civilisation there is nothing which a man claims as "mine." Food and
drink and clothing are "ours," as also are the parcels from home, though
the men to whom they are addressed have generally the privilege of
opening them. Money has lost all its value: for the time being food is
not sold here, and all men have to work at the same job, and they work
well, for the safety of their bodies depends upon the labour of their
hands. Again, in the carping times of peace a soldier may depend upon
the sweat of others for his daily needs; here in the trenches he is a
Socialist in the highest sense of the much-abused word.
The life of the Commune is seldom monotonous, its uncertainty makes it
interesting, its novelty never wanes. The trench has its history, every
dug-out a legend, and the shell-riven alleys of war are steeped in
tradition. The narratives of the trench are handed on from regiment to
regiment, a word or two on the firestep while the battalion just going
out changes places with the relieving battalion, and the legend of an
adjacent dug-out is made plain.
Such scraps of conversation as these may be heard. "That dug-out on the
left got a 'ole in the roof the other night. A time-expired man who was
going off to Blighty the next day went in there and lay down to kip. A
whizz-bang 'it the roof, and the poor bloke went west."
"The Germans occupied these trenches at one time; the Guards charged
them, and not a man escaped. You'll see their dug-outs all along here."
"A sniper used to play 'ell with this bay a month ago. 'E used to send
the bullets into the trench. It took the men some time to discover 'im.
Then they got 'im. 'E was up on the top of a chimney-stack in the
village behind the German trench. 'E could see right down the trench.
Our artillery brought the chimney down and the sniper with it."
So the stories are told and retold, and passed from one set of soldiers
to the next who occupy the trenches.
No doubt stories become distorted and enlarged in the course of time,
but always there is a grain of truth in the most exaggerated trench
story; and every tale gives an added interest and a subtle touch of
romance to the locality. The mean, primitive trench, the home of the
Brown Brethren, is not without certain features of grandeur, and an
atmosphere of mystery pervades the whole place, due, no doubt, to its
close association with death.
It was yet dark in the trenches of the Cologne sector, a much be-shelled
locality on Vimy Ridge, but a faint subdued flush showed on the Eastern
sky far away behind the enemy's line. Stars were twinkling coldly clear
overhead and a keen wind rustled along the floor of the trench. Vague
mutterings and rumblings could be heard in the dug-outs; the men already
warned to stand to arms on the banquette were snatching a few moments'
extra repose; hugging with miserly desire at an additional minute's
rest. Sergeant Snogger came running along the trench shouting. "Stand
to! Stand to!" he called. There was no particular hurry for the sector
was then a comparatively quiet one. But the sergeant merely ran because
a brisk race was a most effective means of driving away the sleepy
feeling which was fostered by the narcotic odours of the dug-out.
The men turned out yawning and swearing, then broke into a brisk run
round a near traverse and back again to their posts by the
dew-besprinkled bayonets. One man looked across the parapet, fixed an
indifferent eye on the Ridge, then burst into a rag-time chorus which a
mate took up with vigour.
The Zouave Wood, the shell-scarred spinney where the trees were flung
broadcast by high concussion shells, lay on the left, wrapped in shadow
and hiding many mysteries. In it was many a little grave where the
kindly earth covered friend and foe alike. It was a place of many
secrets, of strange and vague whispering. There, in the dawn, the
spirits of the dead men seemed to hold converse. But by day the earth
could not hide them, the weapons of the quick dug them again from the
graves and flung them out on the riven spaces of the restless earth.
The air was cold and keen. The men covered their chins with the collars
of their khaki coats, lit their cigarettes and leant against the
parapet. They dozed for a moment and then woke guiltily with a start.
Nobody had noticed them, they dozed again.... The east flushed crimson,
the German trench to the left showed dark against the glow and stood out
distinctly. A sniper's bullet ripped a sandbag and a shower of fine
white dust dropped into the trench. No one paid any heed.... The birds
were out hopping from prop to prop of the barbed wire entanglements. A
lark soared into air pouring out an ecstatic song.... The dead men on
the levels could now be seen lying close to the earth in limp and
ghastly attitudes, the birds singing above them.... The sun was up; a
million dewdrops sparkled in a glorious jewelled disarray on the
wires.... The field had taken on a greener hue and in many places the
daisies peeped timidly up from the soft grasses.... A white mist circled
round the spinney and the gashes in the trees became more distinct.
Looking southwards down on to the level lands one could see the Double
Crassier tailing out on one side to the village of Loos and on the other
side to the mining hamlet of Maroc.... Away down on the left, twelve
kilometres away, lay Lens with its many chimneys, and a number of the
chimneys smoking. The enemy were probably working the mines. The
terra-cotta houses stood out very distinct and seemed nearer to us than
they really were. The air was very clear and a perfect flood of
brilliant sunshine lit the town, the enemy's trench and the dead men
lying out on the field.
The order to stand down had long since been given and the men were now
busy preparing their breakfasts. Braziers were alight in the dug-outs
and the red glow of flaming coke stood out in vivid contrast to the dark
interiors. Little wreaths of pale smoke curled up over the trench and
the air was full of the odour of frying bacon. Spudhole was frying his
bread in the grease and to judge by the expression on his face he was
very interested in his work. Nothing else seemed to trouble him. The
sniper's bullet hit the sandbag again and a spurt of chalk was whisked
into the frying-pan. The youth looked up, obviously annoyed, and swore
whole-heartedly; then he bent to his work again.
Breakfast ready, Bubb, Bowdy and Flanagan sat on the fire-step and ate.
"I've an appetite like the war Casualty List," said Flanagan. "It's
always crying for 'More! More!' and is never satisfied. It's almost as
bad as Bubb when he came back from hospital."
"I'd ravver be 'ere than in the 'orsp," said Bubb. "This breakfast is
not to be larfed at."
The fare was indeed excellent and every man did it justice. Each had a
mess-tin of tea, a thick slice of buttered bread and a rasher of bacon.
Tongues were loosened and the talk became general for there were so many
things to talk about. The week-old papers which came by last night's
post were read and comments passed on the contents. A full page
advertisement in a leading daily came in for a fair share of sarcasm.
This advertisement told of the virtues of a wonderful beauty cream just
discovered. It gave a most delightfully delicate pink flush to the skin
and took away the effects of twenty or thirty years' wear from a woman's
face. It was the talk of London. All the society women were using it.
Lady So-and-So said so-and-so about it; the celebrated actress A----
vowed that it was the one thing which England had waited for since the
early part of the last century, etc.
"For my own part I wish they invented some-thin' to take away the
crawlers off my clothes," Spudhole remarked as he finished his tea. "I'm
goin' to 'ave a coot."
He got to his feet, took off his tunic and donned his equipment over his
shirt. Bowdy went into the dug-out to have a few hours' sleep; Flanagan
sat down on the fire-step and lit a cigarette.
"It's getting quite hot, Spudhole," he said.
"'Ot as 'ell," Spudhole replied.
At that moment a shell burst amidst the poppy flowers on the open in
front of the sector and Spudhole, who was making his way towards the
dug-out door clapped his hand to his neck and exclaimed: "I've copped
one this time; it's givin' me gyp!"
Flanagan shouted "Stretcher bearers!" Then he turned to help his mate
but even as he did so he felt a sudden penetrating pain pierce his own
chin, and the wasp which was responsible for the sting flew off to a
safe distance and poised itself in the air over the dug-out. Fitzgerald,
knowing that it was contemplating another attack, prepared to retreat.
"It's wasps, Spudhole!" he yelled. "We'll clear off round the corner."
But before they moved Bowdy Benners rushed out of the dug-out, festooned
with angry wasps.
"Good God!" he yelled, striking out with both hands. "I'm stung to
death. My pillow was a nest of the swine! Git out, you vermin!... Got
that one! Did I? He's stung my finger.... Oh! blast!..."
The three retreated at the double round the traverse and into the next
bay. The occupants were just sitting down to breakfast, a good
breakfast, for the post had come and parcels were bulky.
"Wot the blazes is this?" one of them exclaimed as the crush of men
rounded the corner waving their arms about their heads. "These 'ere
blokes are working their tickets, I suppose!"
He finished his remark with a yell, for an enterprising wasp had flown
the rout and stung the speaker on the nose. Then the insect made the
round of the breakfast party. A few fled instantly and escaped, others
took to their heels at the first sting, but the man who waited to pick
up the sultana cake and the tin of sardines had all the colours of a
Board School map on his face for weeks afterwards.
A narrow, crooked trench infested by furious wasps is not a healthy
locality. The insects outmanoeuvred the soldiers at every turn. The men
turned the third buttress feeling that they had escaped their
persecutors only to find that the insects had crossed the top of the
traverse and were in waiting round the corner. As a man runs a trench is
a weary pathway, as a wasp flies it presents no difficulties.
The place was in an uproar. The wasps had attacked on both sides, some
drove the men left, others flew after them on the right. In every bay
their numbers seemed to have increased; at the traverse turning the
soldiers eluded them for a moment only to encounter them in the next
bay. A number of men sought safety in the dugouts; the wasps followed
and drove them out into the perilous trench again. When the first
officer was met he stood for a moment with one foot in the trench, one
on the firestep, and stared in astonishment. His wonderment was
short-lived. A wasp announced itself when it alighted on his ear, and
immediately the subaltern became one with the rout.
Spudhole was now wounded in several places. The morning had been fine,
and like the rest of his mates, he was in shirt-sleeves fighting order.
"I've copped a sting again," he yelled. "That's umpty eleven times. I
always said that I didn't 'old with a war like this un. Bombs and
bullets, whizz-bangs and pip-squeaks and now these 'ere God-forsaken
wopses.... That's anuver one, a blurry Boche. 'E sniped me from the rim
of me cap.... God! Platoons of 'em.... Oh! damn! That un took me at the
rear where I should 'ave a patch on me trousers...."
Again a bay was entered where another merry party was sitting down to
breakfast; a gargantuan spread of fried bacon, toast and trench tea. A
platoon officer was sharing in the meal. He was a stout good-natured man
with a bald head, baby-pink and shiny. The advance party of wasps could
not miss the head; the pests came to a halt on it, and being nasty, they
stung when they alighted. The officer yelled several words which the men
had never noticed in his vocabulary before. Groping frantically for his
hat, which, as often happens in a crisis, was nowhere to be found, he
overturned the brazier, the toast-rack, and several canteens of tea,
scalding the feet of a number of men who were seated on the firestep....
The soldiers were up in an instant and raced off along the trench.
Rifles, equipment and ammunition were flung down on the floor and
trampled into the clay and rubble.
At this point, Spudhole was seized with a happy thought. A newspaper had
fallen on the fire and was bursting into flame. Spudhole, seizing the
lighted paper, held it close to his face and kept the wasps away for a
moment.
"But wot is the good of it," he grumbled as the flames died down. "I'm
getting stung be'ind and burned in front. I'm off!" and, throwing the
paper down, he fled.
Struggling, shoving and waving their arms about, the men hustled along
the narrow alley. Two soldiers scrambled up over the top out into the
open, but, being seen by the enemy, a brisk rifle fire was opened on
them and they fled back into their wasp-infested shelter again.
At this point Sergeant Snogger was heard. Seeing two men rushing out
into the open field waving their arms over their heads, he stared at
them open-mouthed and rubbed his eyes with both hands. A hidden sniper
had been potting at the parapet for days!... The action was not in
keeping with trench discipline; in fact if the men did not return
immediately they'd "be damned unlucky!"
"Back! Ye fools, come back!" he yelled. "Wot the blazes--was that!"
The wasp swept past his face like a spent bullet, swung back again and
stung him on the forehead. A second caught him on the neck, a third on
the arm. He turned and ran.
For Flanagan, he was unlucky enough to have his puttees off when the
stampede started, and in a few moments a wasp had got up the leg of his
trousers. It stung him half-a-dozen times before he squashed it to
pulp....
What happened when the Irish rushed into a Highland regiment on the
right must be left to the reader's imagination. Never before had the
Gael been so conscious of the nakedness of his knees. He gave vent to
his wrath in vehement words and it was found difficult to ascertain
whether his anger was directed against the wasps or the men who were
responsible for their coming.
Was it at the hundredth traverse or the thousandth that the effectives
of the besetting force lost an appreciable amount of intensity? That was
a matter for conjecture, but this alone is known. A jar of marmalade
which got overthrown in a bay enticed the insects, and many stopped to
feast on the disbanded treasure. But a few followed with unabated
ardour; these were counter-attacked and destroyed, and afterwards the
soldiers bombed the "Bay of the Broken Jar" with a certain amount of
success.
The Irish strode back defiant and alert, ready for anything. But the
wasps gave no further trouble; here and there one or two were seen
poised in air over a line of sandbags, but these fled at the approach of
the men.
The dug-out in which they had originally entrenched was left in complete
seclusion for the rest of the day, and at night Bowdy and his two mates
approached the place in slow, methodical order. They found the wasps'
nest in a corner of the wall and poured two mess-tins of boiling water
on it. A third mess-tin remained but it was not needed.
"We'll 'ave a drop of char now," said Bubb. "The evenin's gettin' cold
now and we want somefing 'ot."
"Righto!" said Bowdy. "I'll light a fire in here now that the wasps are
gone."
He lit a fire, boiled the water and made the tea. Outside a sniper was
potting at the roof of the dug-out. He had been sniping all day, from
where, none could determine.
"Wonder what he's doing it for," Bowdy asked as he sat down and reached
for the mess-tin which was bubbling merrily on the brazier. "He'll never
pot one of us."
Even as he touched the mess-tin a bullet ricochetted off the parapet
outside, hissed into the dug-out and pierced the bottom of the mess-tin.
The tea poured out and extinguished the fire.
"Well, that's past a joke," Bowdy muttered. "Blow me blind if I'm not
going out to-night to let daylight through that boundering Boche."