what that is?” I lied: “No, sir.” I thought it was the explosion of my
machine-gun bullets in their web belts and I dreaded to go up to see my
section. I had worked with them and tried hard to be a good officer and
the feeling that I should probably only find their mangled remains
sickened me. The colonel said: “That’s the ‘Archie’ in Bedford House. I
think the last ‘crump’ got it. You two”—indicating myself and another
officer—“go up and see if we can do anything. See if they want a working
party and let me know.”
We started to run. On the way up I looked into the cellars to see the men
whom I, the minute previously, had mourned for, and found two asleep,
three hunting through their shirts, and the rest breaking the army orders
by “shooting craps.” From Bedford House a long trail of smoke was rising
and the explosions became louder. We suddenly discovered the “Archie” in
flames. It was in the courtyard and for camouflage had been covered with
branches. It was mounted on an armored Pierce-Arrow truck. The “crump” had
hit it, and gasoline, paint, branches, and hubs were supplying the fuel
which was cooking out the ammunition, the _crack_, _crack_, being the
report of single shells, whereas one loud _boom_ signified the explosion
of an entire box. These shells were going off in all directions and it
became dangerous to stay too near.
The flames on the car were of pretty colors. It is surprising the amount
of inflammable material there is on a car. The late owner of the car, a
lieutenant in the Royal Marine Artillery, was cursing in a low, but
emphatic, marine manner, and several other officers from nearby batteries
were attracted by the noise and the pyrotechnic display. I spoke to the
lieutenant and sympathized with him, and he retorted: “Gott strafe
Germany. Why they should hit the ‘bus’ when I have a brand-new pair of
trench boots that I had never worn, I dunno.” Just then and there the case
cooked out and a piece of shell cut between us and buried itself deep in
the support of a dugout, so we got under cover.
[Illustration]
“Whiz-Bangs.”
In the group was a splendid type of army chaplain. He came over almost at
the start of the war and had seen a great deal of the open warfare at the
commencement of hostilities. He said: “My friend Fritz is not through;
he’ll try to do some more yet.” As the smoke died down and the cracking
stopped, the enemy decided that an attempt would be made either to carry
out salvage of whatever they had hit or else we would try to get the
wounded away. So without any preliminary warning the whole area was
covered by a battery fire of _whiz bangs_, and the shrapnel bullets came
down like rain, several men being hit. The fire eventually died down and
the wreck was allowed to cool off. The “Archies” are used so much to keep
the aeroplanes up, and next to the loss of his boots the officer in charge
was worried by the fact that the enemy would send an aeroplane over to see
what they had hit. It was very necessary to keep the planes away, because
at this time there were one hundred and fourteen batteries of artillery in
the neighborhood.
Later on the battery commander came down, and as he looked at the red-hot
armor plates he said: “Five thousand pounds gone up in smoke. Sorry I
missed the fireworks.” The Divisional general called him up at the dugout
and gave him areas for the distribution of the four anti-aircraft guns and
cars comprising his battery. After he was through the commander replied:
“Very good, sir, that will be done with all the guns except the third
gun.” The voice over the wire became very dignified, a preliminary to
becoming sulphuric. “What do you mean, all but the third gun?” “Because,
sir, the enemy has just ‘crumped’ the third gun and all that remains of it
is scrap iron.”
One of the battalions has a fine victrola in the officers’ mess dugout
with a good selection of records. I have heard Caruso accompanied on the
outside by an orchestra of guns. It was a wonderful mixture. Speaking of
canned music reminds me we have a small portable trench machine, which
closes up like a valise, easily handled and carried about. One man near
had a box full of needles distributed in his back by a bomb; he considers
himself disgraced; he says it will be kind of foolish in years to come to
show his grandchildren twenty-five or thirty needles and tell them that
they were the cause of his wounds.
The Tommies play mouth organs a great deal and it is much easier to march
to the sound of one, even
’Ere we are; ’ere we are,
’Ere we are agin.
We beat ’em on the Marne,
We beat ’em on the Aisne,
We gave ’em ’ELL at Neuve Chapelle,
And ’ere we are agin—
sounds well with the addition of a little music.
Anything is used for trench work; often if we waited for the proper
materials we should be uncomfortable, so it is one of the qualifications
of a good soldier to find things. Sometimes we steal material belonging to
other units, then stick around until the owners come back and help them
look for them; however, it is always advisable to steal materials from
juniors in rank; if they find it out, and are senior, then you are in for
a one-sided strafe.
One of the other battery subalterns found a deserted carpenter’s shop and
he let his men loose to dismantle it. They took the parts of steel
machines and used them for the construction of a dugout. One man said,
“It’s like coming home drunk and smashing up the grand piano with an axe.”
They must have attracted the attention of the ever-alert Boche, for no
sooner had they moved out than the place was shelled to the ground.
Everything I now look at with an eye to its value for trench construction;
thus, telegraph poles, doors, iron girders, and rails are more valuable to
us out here than a Rolls Royce.
[Illustration]
The “Crump.”
-------------------------------------
Slang or trench language is used universally. My own general talks about
“Wipers,” the Tommy’s pronunciation of Ypres, and I have seen a reference
to “Granny” (the fifteen-inch howitzer) in orders “mother” is the name
given to the twelve-inch howitzer. The trench language is changing so
quickly that I think the staff in the rear are unable to keep up to date,
because they have recently issued an order to the effect that slang must
not be used in official correspondence. Now instead of reporting that a
“dud Minnie” arrived over back of “mud lane,” it is necessary to put, “I
have the honor to report that a projectile from a German Minnenwerfer
landed in rear of Trench F 26 and failed to explode.”
Sometimes names of shells go through several changes. For example, high
explosives in the early part of the war were called “black Marias,” that
being the slang name for the English police patrol wagon. Then they were
called “Jack Johnsons,” then “coal boxes,” and finally they were
christened “crumps” on account of the sound they make, a sort of
_cru-ump!_ noise as they explode. “Rum jar” is the trench mortar.
“Sausage” is the slow-going aerial torpedo, a beastly thing about six feet
long with fins like a torpedo. It has two hundred and ten pounds of high
explosive and makes a terrible hole. “Whiz bang” is shrapnel.
Shelling is continuous. We have thousands of pieces of shells and fuse
caps about the premises. I have in front of me a fragment of a shell about
fourteen inches long and about four and one-half inches across, which came
from a German gun. The edges are so sharp that it cuts your hand to hold
it. I use it as a paper-weight.
-------------------------------------
This morning I experienced a wonderful surprise. I had gone up to one of
the North Stafford Batteries to borrow a clinometer. The major, while he
was getting the instrument for me, casually remarked: “There’s yesterday’s
‘Times’ on the bench if you care to look at it.” I turned first to the
casualty list and later to the “London Gazette” for the promotions, and
wholly by accident perused carefully the Motor Machine Gun Service list
and there noted the announcement, “Keene, Louis, 2d Lieut., to be 1st
Lieut.,” and for a fact this was the “official” intimation that I had been
promoted. I had a couple of spare “pips”, rank stars, in my pocket-book,
so I got my corporal to sew them on right away.
-------------------------------------
We are all very happy at times, very dirty, and covered with stings and
bites; have no idea how long we are to remain up. Getting used to the
shell fire, and can sleep through it if it’s not too close. When it comes
near it makes you very thoughtful. Still working at night and resting
during the day. Made another emplacement for one of my machine guns last
night; had twenty men digging; surprising how fast men dig when the
bullets are flying.
-------------------------------------
It’s about 2 A.M. We have just come in. My new emplacement is splendid;
we’ve made it shell-proof and have it ready for firing. I was coming home
this afternoon after having been to the fire trenches when I heard a
shout: “Keene!” I looked up on the canal bank and I saw the general with
one of his A.D.C.’s sitting watching an aeroplane duel. “I’ve come up to
see your gun position, Keene.” I saluted, waited for him, and took him to
it. It is below the level of the ground under tons of bricks in the ruins
of a farmhouse. He was standing on the roof of it and said, “Well, where’s
the emplacement?” “You’re standing on it, sir.” “Tut, tut, ’pon my word,
that’s good.” He was delighted and congratulated me on it. My preliminary
work under the eyes of the general has gone off quite well. I start firing
to-night.
Intimacy between generals and lieutenants is unusual, but it looks as if
mine had taken an interest in me, because when he noticed my insect-bitten
face, he sent me down some dope he had used with good effect in India. I
expect the mosquitoes in India were the ordinary kind, but, believe me,
trench “skeeters” are constructed differently and are proof against the
general’s pet concoction.
I have several miners in my section who take a personal pride in the
digging and shoring up of dugouts. So far the other two sections of the
Battery are always behind in this work but they may look better on parade.
The canal has one big lock suitable for swimming; a lot of “jocks” were
bathing there to-day. I ordered a bathing parade for my section. Later I
found that the swimming had livened three Germans, long submerged—the
bathing parade is off.
A Belgian battery commander has just wakened up and his shells are
rattling overhead. From the fire trenches an incessant rattle of rifles is
heard; all the bullets seem to come over here; constantly the whine of a
musical ricochet bullet is heard. Otherwise things are dead quiet. It’s
getting on for three, so I’m going to bed in my blankets on one of the
late chateau owner’s splendid spring mattresses and carved oak bedstead.
Oh! how nice it would be to sleep without lice. From an adjoining cellar
my section are snoring, and I’m going to add to the chorus. Good-night,
everybody.
-------------------------------------
We have been having Sunday “hate.” Eight-inch crumps are once more busting
“up” the chateau. How they must detest this place. My tea and bully beef
are covered with dust of the last shell. You have no idea how terrible the
shell-fire is. First you hear the whistle and then a terrific burst which
shakes the ground for a hundred yards around; when it clears away you find
a hole ten feet across and six feet deep. At least fifteen have dropped
around us in the last half hour.
This place isn’t somewhere in France, it’s somewhere in Hell! It has been
the scene of a great many encounters; decayed French uniforms, old rifles,
ammunition and leather equipment and bundles of mildewed tobacco leaves
are strewn all over the place. I found the chin-strap of a German
“Pickelhaube” in the grounds, the helmet of a French cuirassier, and the
red pants of a Zouave, close together. When digging in the trenches or
anywhere near the firing line you have to be careful: corpses, dead
horses, and cattle are buried everywhere. I’m building a trench to my
emplacement and we have a stinking cow in the direct line; this will have
to be buried before we can cut through.
Everybody is cheerful and going strong. Yesterday some of my men went
swimming in the moat of the chateau; a shell dropped in the water near
them, and threw up a lot of fish on to the bank. That kind of discouraged
the Tommies swimming, so they cooked the fish and decided that safety
comes before cleanliness out here.
It’s hot and sticky, and when you have to wear thick clothes and equipment
it makes you very uncomfortable, but it’s all in the game.
All through the night we fired single shots from a machine gun; my orders
were to fire between half-past eight at night and four o’clock in the
morning. We have a number of guns doing this. It harasses the enemy and
keeps them from sleeping; anything that will wear a man down is practiced
here.
I’ve constructed a fire emplacement amongst the ruins underground; to get
to it you have to travel through a tunnel eighteen feet long; inside it’s
very damp. I was working with my corporal, crouched up; we were both wet
and cold, and so to cheer things up every now and again we let off a few
rounds and warmed our hands on the barrel. Outside it poured with rain,
and mosquitoes sought refuge inside and mealed off me. The corporal was
immune. I had a water bottle full of whiskey and water. We used it to keep
out the cold, but it wasn’t strong enough. In a case like that you need
wood alcohol. I would like to have had some Prohibitionists with me here.
We had no light except the flash of the gun and the enemy star shells.
At daybreak I came home dead beat. I got into my cellar, was so tired that
I threw myself down on the bed and wrapped myself up in my blankets,
boots, mud, lice and all. I hadn’t been asleep long before the Huns
started “hating” the chateau. They have put over twenty-five large calibre
shells into my place, the grounds and the house. They are still at it.
Every time a shell bursts it makes a hole big enough to bury five horses,
and it shakes the foundations all round. The shells are bigger than usual.
The smoke and earth are blown up fifty or sixty feet in the air. The
effect is a moral disruption. _Why can’t they keep that cotton out of
Germany?_
I have divided my section up into two teams, one in the cellars and one in
the gun-pits. I relieve them every twenty-four hours, and I practically
have to be in both places at once, but I have got a telephone in between
the two places. I have it by my bed so that I can constantly know how
things are going. However, the wire is cut two or three times a day by
bullets and shell splinters, my linesman has a constant job.
Fired all night; came back at six o’clock this morning, very tired. Had a
telegram from the general to fire two thousand rounds in twenty-four
hours; this is quite hard work. Actually we could fire the lot in five
minutes, but it would attract too much attention. The enemy use whole
batteries of artillery to blot out machine guns which attract attention,
so we have to fire single shots.
We have for neighbors four dead cows and an unexploded six-inch shell,
liable to go off any time, all in a radius of one hundred yards. We have
smashed holes through five walls so that we can go through the ruins
unobserved. In one place we pass over a dead cow, and in another we wade
through several tons of rotten potatoes, and I believe we have a corpse
handy; and part of our trench goes through another heap of rotten mangles.
I’m an authority on smells. I can almost tell the nationality of a corpse
now by the smell. It will soon be necessary to wear our smoke-helmets to
go into the emplacement. I don’t think that I have told you that I cross
the Yser canal about six times a day. I’d been up a week before I knew
what it was. Now it only has a few feet of water in it, the rest being
held in the German locks. The part I cross over is full of bulrushes, and
is the home of moor-hens, water rats, mosquitoes and frogs.
On one side of the canal is a bank which is in great demand by the machine
gunners, who are able to get a certain amount of height and observation of
their fire. The general has ordered a field gun to take up a position on
this bank. He refers to it as his “Sniping eighteen-pounder.” It is firing
at seven hundred yards right at the German line and smashes up their
parapet in a style that is pretty to watch. The machine gunners are in a
great state, because the enemy will soon be “searching” with his artillery
for the eighteen-pounder and the lairs of the smaller hidden guns will
suffer.
The men are hunting for lice in their underwear. This is the kind of
conversation that is coming through from the next cellars: “I’ve got you
beat—that’s forty-seven.” “Wait a minute”—a sound of tearing cloth—“but
look at this lot, mother and young.” “With my forty and these you’ll have
to find some more.” They were betting on the number they could find. I
peel off my shirt myself and burn them off with a candle. I glory in the
little pop they make when the heat gets to them. All the insect powder in
the world has been tried out on them and they’ve won.
All sentries here are doubled; one thing it’s safer, and another it’s
company; even when things are quiet, rats and mice scamper about and it
sets your nerves on end. Things which are inanimate during the day become
alive at night. Trees seem to walk about. I wonder what it tastes like to
have a real meal in which tinned food does not figure; fancy a tablecloth;
my tablecloth is a double sheet of newspaper, and even then I can’t have a
new one every day.
-------------------------------------
Had a good night’s rest; came in about twelve o’clock and slept until
eight-thirty this morning. One eye is completely closed up by a sting.
A German aeroplane has been hovering over our positions looking for my
gun, so we have stopped firing and all movement. I know just how the
chicken feels when the hawk hovers over it. Few people realize how much
aeroplanes figure in this war, for war would be much different without
them. They do the work of Cavalry only in the sky. Whenever they come
over, the sentries blow three blasts on their whistles and everybody runs
for cover or freezes; guns stop firing and are covered up with branches
made on frames. If men are caught in the open they stand perfectly still
and do not look up, for on the aeroplane photographs faces at certain
heights show light; dugouts are covered over with trees, straw or grass.
We use aeroplane photographs a great deal; they show trenches distinctly
and look very like the canals on Mars.
The Huns have been “hating” the road one quarter of a mile away all the
morning. That doesn’t worry us a bit as long as they don’t come any
closer. I’m willing always to share up on the shelling.
This order has just been issued. It speaks for itself:—
All ranks are warned that bombs and grenades must not be used for
fishing and killing game.
I went over another farm to-day. It is one of the well-ventilated kind,
punched full of holes. In the kitchen, stables and outhouses there was a
most wonderful collection of junk: ammunition, British and French
bandoliers, old sheepskin coats abandoned by the British troops from last
winter, smashed rifles, bayonets, meat tins, parts of broken equipment,
sandbags, stacks of rotten potatoes and three dead cows. The fruit trees
are laden with fruit, and vines are growing up the houses with their
bunches of green grapes.
In the garden several lonely graves are piled high with old boots, straw,
American agricultural implements, rotting sacks and rubbish of every
description, pieces of shells, barrels, and in one room the rusty remains
of a perambulator and sewing machine; rats are the only inhabitants now.
In the garret (the staircase leading up to it gone long ago) I found a
British rifle, bayonet fixed, ten rounds in the magazine, and the bolt
partly drawn out. Evidently the owner was in the act of reloading his
chamber when something happened. The graves were dated second and third
months of this year. The poor wooden crosses were made of pieces of ration
cases and the names written with an indelible pencil. The wretchedness of
this farm, which was flourishing only a short time ago, is very pathetic.
We have adopted an old Belgian mother cat with her family of three kittens
in the dugout. Now we find that three more little wild kittens are living
in the bricks which we have piled around the windows to protect us against
shells. They are all encouraged to live with us in the cellars. I like
cats, and they will help to keep the rats down. Although some of the rats
are nearly the size of cats.
It has been raining again and the trenches are filling up with slush. We
carry a big trench stick, a thick sapling about four feet long with a
ferrule made from a cartridge of a “very-light” (star shell), to help
ourselves in walking; our feet are beginning to get wet and cold as a
regular thing now, and we are revetting our trenches firm and solid for
the winter. Eleven P.M. A mine under the Boche line has just been
exploded. The fighting has just started for the crater.
I took a German Uhlan helmet from a gentleman who had no further use for
it. It was pretty badly knocked about; still, if I can get it home it’s a
trophy.
-------------------------------------
[Illustration]
Mr. Tommy Atkins.
It’s about eight o’clock Sunday evening. All day long shells have been
coming over like locomotives. Every five seconds one goes over into the
old town; every five seconds for the last two hours. The chateau has been
shelled again with “crumps”; they are such rotten shots; if only they
would put in two good ones in the center it would blow it to bits and then
they might leave us alone. The whole of the ground is pitted because they
can’t hit it squarely.
-------------------------------------
My work lies behind the front line and in front of the support, firing
over the heads of the men in the main trenches. The emplacement was
shelled to-day; one shell hit the roof, burst and knocked over one of my
men, cutting his head open. He is not very badly hurt, but has gone to the
hospital. The shelling has been terrible to-day.
The Germans have been very quiet lately, and working parties are out all
along their front lines at night—something’s up. Dirty work can be
expected at any time now. We have steel helmets to protect us from spent
bullets and splinters. They look like the old Tudor steel helmets and they
are fine to wash in.
You have no idea what a big part food plays in our life. Yesterday morning
I went with the machine-gun officer of another outfit to crawl about
looking for positions. We were in an orchard. I happened to look up and
saw ripe plums! Terrified lest he should see them and forestall me, I
said, “Let’s beat it, this is too unhealthy,” so we crawled back. Last
night in the light of a big moon such as coons always steal watermelons
by, a section officer and his cook crawled to the plum tree. The section
officer, being large, stood underneath while the cook climbed the tree and
dropped them into a sandbag held open by the S.O. They got about ten
pounds. They go well stewed, believe me. The fact that bullets whistled
through the trees most of the time made them taste better to-day. Sat the
rest of the night in a hedge firing at the Boches with a Lewis gun. I
struck for bed just as dawn broke.
-------------------------------------
To-day the guns are again “hating” the chateau, and they have put sixty
shells in the neighborhood. Still, “there’s no cloud without a silver
lining.” I’ve got a new way home. Instead of going right around the
kennels, stables, and through the yards, I go “through” the greenhouse
direct, thereby saving a lot of time. The Huns’ calendar is wrong. They
have always shelled me Sunday and Wednesday. To-day’s Tuesday!
We use up the window frames and doorways for kindling, and consequently
the doors have gone long ago. I have been smashing up mouldings this
morning with an axe. We prefer the dry wood which is built into the walls;
it burns better and doesn’t cause smoke. As soon as smoke is seen rising,
the enemy’s range-finders get busy and then we suffer.