A NIGHT OF HORROR
'Tis only a dream in the trenches,
Told when the shadows creep,
Over the friendly sandbags
When men in the dug-outs sleep.
This is the tale of the trenches
Told when the shadows fall,
By little Hughie of Dooran,
Over from Donegal.
On the noon following the journey to the village I was sent back to
the Keep; that night our company went into the firing trench again. We
were all pleased to get there; any place was preferable to the block
of buildings in which we had lost so many of our boys. On the night
after our departure, two Engineers who were working at the Keep could
not find sleeping place in the dug-outs, and they slept on the spot
where I made my bed the first night I was there. In the early morning
a shell struck the wall behind them and the poor fellows were blown to
atoms.
For three days we stayed in the trenches, narrow, suffocating and damp
places, where parados and parapet almost touched and where it was (p. 176)
well-nigh impossible for two men to pass. Food was not plentiful here,
all the time we lived on bully beef and biscuits; our tea ran short
and on the second day we had to drink water at our meals. From our
banquette it was almost impossible to see the enemy's position; the
growing grass well nigh hid their lines; occasionally by standing
tiptoed on the banquette we could catch a glimpse of white sandbags
looking for all the world like linen spread out to dry on the grass.
But the Germans did not forget that we were near, pipsqueaks, rifle
grenades, bombs and bullets came our way with aggravating persistence.
It was believed that the Prussians, spiteful beggars that they are,
occupied the position opposite. In these trenches the dug-outs were
few and far between; we slept very little.
On the second night I was standing sentry on the banquette. My watch
extended from twelve to one, the hour when the air is raw and the
smell of the battle line is penetrating. The night was pitch black; in
ponds and stagnant streams in the vicinity frogs were chuckling. Their
hoarse clucking could be heard all round; when the star-shells flew up
I could catch vague glimpses of the enemy's sandbags and the line (p. 177)
of tall shrapnel-swept trees which ran in front of his trenches. The
sleep was heavy in my eyes; time and again I dozed off for a second
only to wake up as a shell burst in front or swept by my head. It
seemed impossible to remain awake, often I jumped down to the floor of
the trench, raced along for a few yards, then back to the banquette
and up to the post beside my bayonet.
One moment of quiet and I dropped into a light sleep. I punched my
hands against the sandbags until they bled; the whizz of the shells
passed like ghosts above me; slumber sought me and strove to hold me
captive. I had dreams; a village standing on a hill behind the
opposite trench became peopled; it was summer and the work of haying
and harvesting went on. The men went out to the meadows with
long-handled scythes and mowed the grass down in great swathes. I
walked along a lane leading to the field and stopped at the stile and
looked in. A tall youth who seemed strangely familiar was mowing. The
sweat streamed down his face and bare chest. His shirt was folded
neatly back and his sleeves were thrust up almost to the shoulders.
The work did not come easy to him; he always followed the first (p. 178)
sweep of the scythe with a second which cropped the grass very close
to the ground. For an expert mower the second stroke is unnecessary;
the youngster had not learned to put a keen edge on the blade. I
wanted to explain to him the best way to use the sharping stone, but I
felt powerless to move: I could only remain at the stile looking on.
Sometimes he raised his head and looked in my direction, but took no
notice of me. Who was he? Where had I seen him before? I called out to
him but he took no notice. I tried to change my position, succeeded
and crossed the stile. When I came close to him, he spoke.
"You were long in coming," he said, and I saw it was my brother, a
youngster of eighteen.
"I went to the well for a jug of water," I said, "But it's dry now and
the three trout are dead at the bottom."
"'Twas because we didn't put a cross of green rushes over it last
Candlemas Eve," he remarked. "You should have made one then, but you
didn't. Can you put an edge on the scythe?" he asked.
"I used to be able before--before the--" I stopped feeling that I had
forgotten some event.
"I don't know why, but I feel strange," I said, "When did you come (p. 179)
to this village?"
"Village?"
"That one up there." I looked in the direction where the village stood
a moment before, but every red-brick house with its roof of
terra-cotta tiles had vanished. I was gazing along my own glen in
Donegal with its quiet fields, its sunny braes, steep hills and white
lime-washed cottages, snug under their neat layers of straw.
The white road ran, almost parallel with the sparkling river, through
a wealth of emerald green bottom lands. How came I to be here? I
turned to my brother to ask him something, but I could not speak.
A funeral came along the road; four men carried a black coffin
shoulder high; they seemed to be in great difficulties with their
burden. They stumbled and almost fell at every step. A man carrying
his coat and hat in one hand walked in front, and he seemed to be
exhorting those who followed to quicken their pace. I sympathised with
the man in front. Why did the men under the coffin walk so slowly? It
was a ridiculous way to carry a coffin, on the shoulders. Why did they
not use a stretcher? It would be the proper thing to do. I turned (p. 180)
to my brother.
"They should have stretchers, I told him."
"Stretchers?"
"And stretcher-bearers."
"Stretcher-bearers at the double!" he snapped and vanished. I flashed
back into reality again; the sentinel on the left was leaning towards
me; I could see his face, white under the Balaclava helmet. There was
impatience in his voice when he spoke.
"Do you hear the message?" he called.
"Right!" I answered and leant towards the man on my right. I could see
his dark, round head, dimly outlined above the parapet.
"Stretcher bearers at the double!" I called. "Pass it along."
From mouth to mouth it went along the living wire; that ominous call
which tells of broken life and the tragedy of war. Nothing is so poignant
in the watches of the night as the call for stretcher-bearers; there
is a thrill in the message swept from sentinel to sentinel along the
line of sandbags, telling as it does, of some poor soul stricken down
writhing in agony on the floor of the trenches.
For a moment I remained awake; then phantoms rioted before my (p. 181)
eyes; the trees out by the German lines became ghouls. They held
their heads together in consultation and I knew they were plotting
some evil towards me. What were they going to do? They moved, long,
gaunt, crooked figures dressed in black, and approached me. I felt
frightened but my fright was mixed with curiosity. Would they speak?
What would they say? I knew I had wronged them in some way or another;
when and how I did not remember. They came near. I could see they wore
black masks over their faces and their figures grew in size almost
reaching the stars. And as they grew, their width diminished; they
became mere strands reaching form earth to heaven. I rubbed my eyes,
to find myself gazing at the long, fine grasses that grew up from the
reverse slope of the parapet.
I leant back from the banquette across the narrow trench and rested my
head on the parados. I could just rest for a moment, one moment then
get up again. The ghouls took shape far out in front now, and careered
along the top of the German trench, great gaunt shadows that raced as
if pursued by a violent wind. Why did they run so quickly? Were they
afraid of something? They ran in such a ridiculous way that I (p. 182)
could not help laughing. They were making way, that was it. They had
to make way. Why?
"Make way!"
Two stretcher-bearers stood on my right; in front of them a sergeant.
"Make way, you're asleep," he said.
"I'm not," I replied, coming to an erect position.
"Well, you shouldn't remain like that, if you don't want to get your
head blown off."
My next sentry hour began at nine in the morning; I was standing on
the banquette when I heard Bill speaking. He was just returning with a
jar of water drawn from a pump at the rear, and he stopped for a
moment in front of Spud Higgles, one of No. 4's boys.
"Mornin'! How's yer hoppin' it?" said Spud.
"Top over toe!" answered Bill. "Ow's you?"
"Up to the pink. Any news?"
"Yer 'aven't 'eard it?"
"What?"
"The Brigadier's copped it this mornin'."
"Oo?"
"Our Brigadier." (p. 183)
"Git!"
"'S truth!"
"Strike me pink!" said Spud. "'Ow?"
"A stray bullet."
"Stone me ginger! but one would say he'd a safe job."
"The bullet 'ad 'is number!"
"So, he's gone west!"
"He's gone west!"
Bill's information was quite true. Our Brigadier while making a tour
of inspection of the trenches, turned to the orderly officer and said:
"I believe I am hit, here." He put his hand on his left knee.
His trousers were cut away but no wound was visible. An examination
was made on his body and a little clot of blood was found over the
groin on the right. A bullet had entered there and remained in the
body. Twenty minutes later the Brigadier was dead.
Rations were short for breakfast, dinner did not arrive, we had no tea
but all the men were quite cheerful for it was rumoured that we were
going back to our billets at four o'clock in the afternoon. About that
hour we were relieved by another battalion, and we marched back (p. 184)
through the communication trench, past Marie Redoubt, Gunner Siding,
the Keep and into a trench that circled along the top of the Brick
Path. This was not the way out; why had we come here? had the officer
in front taken the wrong turning? Our billet there was such a musty
old barn with straw littered on the floor and such a quaint old farmhouse
where they sold newly laid eggs, fresh butter, fried potatoes, and
delightful salad! We loved the place, the sleepy barges that glided
along the canal where we loved to bathe, the children at play; the
orange girls who sold fruit from large wicker baskets and begged our
tunic buttons and hat-badges for souvenirs. We wanted so much to go
back that evening! Why had they kept us waiting?
"'Eard that?" Bill said to me. "Two London battalions are goin' to
charge to-night. They're passing up the trench and we're in 'ere to
let them get by."
"About turn!"
We stumbled back again into the communication trench and turned to the
left, to go out we should have gone to the right. What was happening?
Were we going back again? No dinner, no tea, no rations and sleepless
nights.... The barn at our billet with the cobwebs on the rafters (p. 185)
... the salad and soup.... We weren't going out that night.
We halted in a deep narrow trench between Gunner Siding and Marie
Redoubt, two hundred yards back from the firing trench. Our officer
read out orders.
"The ---- Brigade is going to make an attack on the enemy's position
at 6.30 this evening. Our battalion is to take part in the attack by
supporting with rifle fire."
Two of our companies were in the firing line; one was in support and
we were reserves; we had to remain in the trench packed up like
herrings, and await further instructions. The enemy knew the
communication trench; they had got the range months before and at one
time the trench was occupied by them.
We got into the trench at the time when the attack took place; our
artillery was now silent and rapid rifle fire went on in front; a life
and death struggle was in progress there. In our trench it was very
quiet, we were packed tight as the queue at the gallery door of a
cheap music-hall on a Saturday night.
"Blimey, a balmy this!" said Bill making frantic efforts to squash my
toes in his desire to find a fair resting place for his feet. (p. 186)
"I'm 'ungry. Call this the best fed army in the world. Dog and maggot
all the bloomin' time. I need all the hemery paper given to clean my
bayonet, to sharpen my teeth to eat the stuff. How are we goin' to
sleep this night, Pat?"
"Standing."
"Like a blurry 'oss. But Stoner's all right," said Bill. Stoner was
all right; somebody had dug a little burrow at the base of the
traverse and he was lying there already asleep.
We stood in the trench till eight o'clock almost suffocated. It was
impossible for the company to spread out, on the right we were
touching the supports, on the left was a communication trench leading
to the point of attack, and this was occupied by part of another
battalion. We were hemmed in on all sides, a compressed company in
full marching order with many extra rounds of ammunition and empty
stomachs.
I was telling a story to the boys, one that Pryor and Goliath gave
credence to, but which the others refused to believe. It was a tale of
two trench-mortars, squat little things that loiter about the firing
line and look for all the world like toads ready to hop off. I came on
two of these the night before, crept on them unawares and found (p. 187)
them speaking to one another.
"Nark it, Pat," muttered Bill lighting a cigarette. "Them talking. Git
out!"
"Of course you don't understand," I said. "The trench-mortar has a
soul, a mind and great discrimination," I told him.
"What's a bomb?" asked Bill.
"'Tis the soul finding expression. Last night they were speaking, as I
have said. They had a wonderful plan in hand. They decided to steal
away and drink a bottle of wine in Givenchy."
"Blimey!"
"They did not know the way out and at that moment up comes Wee Hughie
Gallagher of Dooran; in his sea-green bonnet, his salmon-pink coat,
and buff tint breeches and silver shoon and mounted one of the
howitzers and off they went as fast as the wind to the wineshop at
Givenchy."
"Oo's 'Ughie what dy'e call 'im of that place?"
"He used to be a goat-herd in Donegal once upon a time when cows were
kine and eagles of the air built their nests in the beards of giants."
"Wot!"
"I often met him there, going out to the pastures, with a herd of (p. 188)
goats before him and a herd of goats behind him and a salmon tied to
the laces of his brogues for supper."
"I wish we 'ad somethin' for supper," said Bill.
"Hold your tongue. He has lived for many thousands of years, has Wee
Hughie Gallagher of Dooran," I said, "but he hasn't reached the first
year of his old age yet. Long ago when there were kings galore in
Ireland, he went out to push his fortune about the season of
Michaelmas and the harvest moon. He came to Tirnan-Oge, the land of
Perpetual Youth which is flowing with milk and honey."
"I wish this trench was!"
"Bill!"
"But you're balmy, chum," said the Cockney, "'owitzers talkin' and
then this feller. Ye're pullin' my leg."
"I'm afraid you're not intellectual enough to understand the
psychology of a trench-howitzer or the temperament of Wee Hughie
Gallagher of Dooran, Bill."
"'Ad 'e a finance?"[2]
[Footnote 2: Fiancée.]
"A what?" I asked.
"Wot Goliath 'as, a girl at home." (p. 189)
"That's it, is it? Why do you think of such a thing?"
"I was trying to write a letter to-day to St. Albans," said Bill, and
his voice became low and confidential. "But you're no mate," he added.
"You were goin' to make some poetry and I haven't got it yet."
"What kind of poetry do you want me to make?" I asked.
"Yer know it yerself, somethin' nice like!"
"About the stars--"
"Star-shells if you like."
"Shall I begin now? We can write it out later."
"Righto!"
I plunged into impromptu verse.
I lie as still as a sandbag in my dug-out shrapnel proof,
My candle shines in the corner, and the shadows dance on the roof,
Far from the blood-stained trenches, and far from the scenes of war,
My thoughts go back to a maiden, my own little guiding star.
"That's 'ot stuff," said Bill.
I was on the point of starting a fresh verse when the low rumble of an
approaching shell was heard; a messenger of death from a great German
gun out at La Bassée. This gun was no stranger to us; he often (p. 190)
played havoc with the Keep; it was he who blew in the wall a few nights
before and killed the two Engineers. The missile he flung moved slowly
and could not keep pace with its own sound. Five seconds before it
arrived we could hear it coming, a slow, certain horror, sure of its
mission and steady to its purpose. The big gun at La Bassée was
shelling the communication trench, endeavouring to stop reinforcements
from getting up to the firing lines and the red field between.
The shell burst about fifty yards away and threw a shower of dirt over
us. There was a precipitate flop, a falling backwards and forwards and
all became messed up in an intricate jumble of flesh, equipment,
clothing and rifles in the bottom of the trench. A swarm of "bees"
buzzed overhead, a few dropped into the trench and Pryor who gripped
one with his hand swore under his breath. The splinter was almost
red-hot.
The trench was voluble.
"I'm chokin'; get off me tummy."
"Your boot's on my face."
"Nobody struck?"
"Nobody." (p. 191)
"Gawd! I hope they don't send many packets like that."
"Spread out a little to the left," came the order from an officer.
"When you hear a shell coming lie flat."
We got to our feet, all except Stoner, who was still asleep in his
lair, and changed our positions, our ears alert for the arrival of the
next shell. The last bee had scarcely ceased to buzz when we heard the
second projectile coming.
"Another couple of steps. Hurry up. Down." Again we threw ourselves in
a heap; the shell burst and again we were covered with dust and muck.
"Move on a bit. Quicker! The next will be here in a minute," was the
cry and we stumbled along the narrow alley hurriedly as if our lives
depended on the very quickness. When we came to a halt there was only
a space of two feet between each man. The trench was just wide enough
for the body of one, and all set about to sort themselves in the best
possible manner. A dozen shells now came our way in rapid succession.
Some of the men went down on their knees and pressed their faces close
to the ground like Moslems at prayer. They looked for all the (p. 192)
world like Moslems, as the pictures show them, prostrate in prayer.
The posture reminded me of stories told of ostriches, birds I have
never seen, who bury their heads in the sand and consider themselves
free from danger when the world is hidden from their eyes.
Safety in that style did not appeal to me; I sat on the bottom of the
trench, head erect. If a splinter struck me it would wound me in the
shoulders or the arms or knees. I bent low so that I might protect my
stomach; I had seen men struck in that part of the body, the wounds
were ghastly and led to torturing deaths. When a shell came near, I
put the balls of my hands over my eyes, spread my palms outwards and
covered my ears with the fingers. This was some precaution against
blindness; and deadened the sound of explosion. Bill for a moment was
unmoved, he stood upright in a niche in the wall and made jokes.
"If I kick the bucket," he said, "don't put a cross with ''E died for
'is King and Country' over me. A bully beef tin at my 'ead will do,
and on it scrawled in chalk, ''E died doin' fatigues on an empty
stomach.'"
"A cig.," he called, "'oo as a cig., a fag, a dottle. If yer can't (p. 193)
give me a fag, light one and let me look at it burnin.' Give Tommy a
fag an' 'e doesn't care wot 'appens. That was in the papers. Blimey!
it puts me in mind of a dummy teat. Give it to the pore man's
pianner...."
"The what!"
"The squalling kid, and tell the brat to be quiet, just like they tell
Tommy to 'old 'is tongue when they give 'im a cig. Oh, blimey!"
A shell burst and a dozen splinters whizzed past Bill's ears. He was
down immediately another prostrate Moslem on the floor of the trench.
In front of me Pryor sat, his head bent low, moving only when a shell
came near, to raise his hands and cover his eyes. The high explosive
shells boomed slowly in from every quarter now, and burst all round
us. Would they fall into the trench? If they did! The La Bassée
monster, the irresistible giant, so confident of its strength was only
one amongst the many. We sank down, each in his own way, closer to the
floor of the trench. We were preparing to be wounded in the easiest
possible way. True we might get killed; lucky if we escaped! Would any
of us see the dawn?...
One is never aware of the shrapnel shell until it bursts. They (p. 194)
had been passing over our heads for a long time, making a sound like
the wind in telegraph wires, before one burst above us. There was a
flash and I felt the heat of the explosion on my face. For a moment I
was dazed, then I vaguely wondered where I had been wounded. My nerves
were on edge and a coldness swept along my spine.... No, I wasn't
struck....
"All right, Pryor?" I asked.
"Something has gone down my back, perhaps it's clay," he answered.
"You're safe?"
"I think so," I answered. "Bill."
"I've copped it," answered the Cockney. "Here in my back, it's burnin'
'orrid."
"A minute, matey," I said, tumbling into a kneeling position and
bending over him. "Let me undo your equipment."
I pulled his pack-straps clear, loosened his shirt front and tunic,
pulled the clothes down his back. Under the left shoulder I found a
hot piece of shrapnel casing which had just pierced through his dress
and rested on the skin. A black mark showed where it had burned in but
little harm was done to Bill.
"You're all right, matey," I said. "Put on your robes again."
"Stretcher-bearers at the double," came the cry up the trench and (p. 195)
I turned to Pryor. He was attending to one of our mates, a Section 3 boy
who caught a bit in his arm just over the wrist. He was in pain, but
the prospect of getting out of the trench buoyed him up into great
spirits.
"It may be England with this," he said.
"Any others struck?" I asked Pryor who was busy with a first field
dressing on the wounded arm.
"Don't know," he answered. "There are others, I think."
"Every man down this way is struck," came a voice; "one is out."
"Killed?"
"I think so."
"Who is he?"
"Spud Higgles," came the answer; then--"No, he's not killed, just got
a nasty one across the head."
They crawled across us on the way to the dressing station, seven of
them. None were seriously hurt, except perhaps Spud Higgles, who was a
little groggy and vowed he'd never get well again until he had a
decent drink of English beer, drawn from the tap.
The shelling never slackened; and all the missiles dropped (p. 196)
perilously near; a circle of five hundred yards with the trench
winding across it, enclosed the dumping ground of the German guns. At
times the trench was filled with the acid stench of explosives mixed
with fine lime flung from the fallen masonry with which the place was
littered. This caused every man to cough, almost choking as the throat
tried to rid itself of the foreign substance. One or two fainted and
recovered only after douches of cold water on the face and chest.
The suspense wore us down; we breathed the suffocating fumes of one
explosion and waited, our senses tensely strung for the coming of the
next shell. The sang-froid which carried us through many a tight
corner with credit utterly deserted us, we were washed-out things;
with noses to the cold earth, like rats in a trap we waited for the
next moment which might land us into eternity. The excitement of a
bayonet charge, the mad tussle with death on the blood-stained field,
which for some reason is called the field of honour was denied us; we
had to wait and lie in the trench, which looked so like a grave, and
sink slowly into the depths of depression.
Everything seemed so monstrously futile, so unfinished, so (p. 197)
useless. Would the dawn see us alive or dead? What did it matter? All
that we desired was that this were past, that something, no matter
what, came and relieved us of our position. All my fine safeguards
against terrible wounds were neglected. What did it matter where a
shell hit me now, a weak useless thing at the bottom of a trench? Let
it come, blow me to atoms, tear me to pieces, what did I care? I felt
like one in a horrible nightmare; unable to help myself. I lay passive
and waited.
I believe I dozed off at intervals. Visions came before my eyes, the
sandbags on the parapet assumed fantastic shapes, became alive and
jeered down at me. I saw Wee Hughie Gallagher of Dooran, the lively
youth who is so real to all the children of Donegal, look down at me
from the top of the trench. He carried a long, glistening bayonet in
his hand and laughed at me. I thought him a fool for ever coming near
the field of war. War! Ah, it amused him! He laughed at me. I was
afraid; he was not; he was afraid of nothing. What would Bill think of
him? I turned to the Cockney; but he knelt there, head to the earth,
a motionless Moslem. Was he asleep? Probably he was; any way it (p. 198)
did not matter.
The dawn came slowly, a gradual awaking from darkness into a cheerless
day, cloudy grey and pregnant with rain that did not fall. Now and
again we could hear bombs bursting out in front and still the
artillery thundered at our communication trench.
Bill sat upright rubbing his chest.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"What's wrong! Everythink," he answered. "There are platoons of
intruders on my shirt, sappin' and diggin' trenches and Lord knows
wot!"
"Verminous, Bill?"
"Cooty as 'ell," he said. "But wait till I go back to England. I'll go
inter a beershop and get a pint, a gallon, a barrel--"
"A hogshead," I prompted.
"I've got one, my own napper's an 'og's 'ead," said Bill.
"When I get the beer I'll capture a coot, a big bull coot, an' make
'im drunk," he continued. "When 'e's in a fightin' mood I'll put him
inside my shirt an' cut 'im amok. There'll be ructions; 'e'll charge
the others with fixed bayonets an' rout 'em. Oh! blimey! will they
ever stop this damned caper? Nark it. Fritz, nark yer doin's, (p. 199)
ye fool."
Bill cowered down as the shell burst, then sat upright again.
"I'm gettin' more afraid of these things every hour," he said, "what is
the war about?"
"I don't know," I answered.
"I'm sick of it," Bill muttered.
"Why did you join?"
"To save myself the trouble of telling people why I didn't," he
answered with a laugh. "Flat on yer tummy, Rifleman Teake, there's
another shell."
About noon the shelling ceased; we breathed freely again and
discovered we were very hungry. No food had passed our lips since
breakfast the day before. Stoner was afoot, alert and active, he had
slept for eight hours in his cubby-hole, and the youngster was now
covered with clay and very dirty.
"I'll go back to the cook's waggon at Givenchy and rake up some grub,"
he said, and off he went.