SOUVENIR HUNTERS
I have a big French rifle, its stock is riddled clean,
And shrapnel smashed its barrel, likewise its magazine;
I've carried it from A to X and back to A again,
I've found it on the battlefield amidst the soldiers slain.
A souvenir for blighty away across the foam,
That's if the French authorities will let me take it home.
Most people are souvenir hunters, but the craze for souvenirs has
never affected me until now; at present I have a decent collection of
curios, consisting amongst other things of a French rifle, which I
took from the hands of a dead soldier on the field near Souchez; a
little nickel boot, which was taken from the pack of a Breton
piou-piou who was found dead by a trench in Vermelles--one of our men
who obtained this relic carried it about with him for many weeks until
he was killed by a shell and then the boot fell into my hands. I have
two percussion caps, one from a shell that came through the roof of a
dug-out and killed two of our boys, the other was gotten beside a dead
lieutenant in a deserted house in Festubert. In addition to these (p. 265)
I have many shell splinters that fell into the trench and landed at my
feet, rings made from aluminium timing-pieces of shells and several
other odds and ends picked up from the field of battle. Once I found a
splendid English revolver--but that is a story.
We were billeted in a model mining-village of red brick houses and
terra cotta tiles, where every door is just like the one next to it
and the whole place gives the impression of monotonous sameness
relieved here and there by a shell-shattered roof, a symbol of sorrow
and wanton destruction. In this place of an evening children may be
seen out of doors listening for the coming of the German shells and
counting the number that fall in the village. From our billets we went
out to the trenches by Vermelles daily, and cut the grass from the
trenches with reaping hooks. In the morning a white mist lay on the
meadows and dry dung and dust rose from the roadway as we marched out
to our labour.
We halted by the last house in the village, one that stood almost
intact, although the adjoining buildings were well nigh levelled to
the ground. My mate, Pryor, fixed his eyes on the villa.
"I'm going in there," he said pointing at the doors. (p. 266)
"Souvenirs?" I asked.
"Souvenirs," he replied.
The two of us slipped away from the platoon and entered the building.
On the ground floor stood a table on which a dinner was laid; an
active service dinner of soup made from soup tablets (2_d._ each) the
wrappers of which lay on the tiled floor, some tins of bully beef,
opened, a loaf, half a dozen apples and an unopened tin of _café au
lait_. The dinner was laid for four, although there were only three
forks, two spoons and two clasp knives, the latter were undoubtedly
used to replace table knives. Pryor looked under the table, then
turned round and fixed a pair of scared eyes on me, and beckoned to me
to approach. I came to his side and saw under the table on the floor a
human hand, severed from the arm at the wrist. Beside it lay a
web-equipment, torn to shreds, a broken range-finder and a Webley
revolver, long of barrel and heavy of magazine.
"A souvenir," said Pryor. "It must have been some time since that
dinner was made; the bully smells like anything."
"The shell came in there," I said pointing at the window, the side (p. 267)
of which was broken a little, "and it hit one poor beggar anyway.
Nobody seems to have come in here since then."
"We'll hide the revolver," Pryor remarked, "and we'll come here for it
to-night."
We hid the revolver behind the door in a little cupboard in the wall;
we came back for it two days later, but the weapon was gone though the
hand still lay on the floor. What was the history of that house and of
the officers who sat down to dinner? Will the tragedy ever be told?
I had an interesting experience near Souchez when our regiment was
holding part of the line in that locality. On the way in was a single
house, a red brick villa, standing by the side of the communication
trench which I used to pass daily when I went out to get water from
the carts at the rear. One afternoon I climbed over the side and
entered the house by a side door that looked over the German lines.
The building was a conspicuous target for the enemy, but strange to
say, it had never been touched by shell fire; now and again bullets
peppered the walls, chipped the bricks and smashed the window-panes.
On the ground floor was a large living-room with a big-bodied stove
in the centre of the floor, religious pictures hung on the wall, (p. 268)
a grandfather's clock stood in the niche near the door, the blinds
were drawn across the shattered windows, and several chairs were
placed round a big table near the stove. Upstairs in the bedrooms the
beds were made and in one apartment a large perambulator, with a doll
flung carelessly on its coverlet, stood near the wall, the paper of
which was designed in little circles and in each circle were figures
of little boys and girls, hundreds of them, frivolous mites, absurd
and gay.
Another stair led up to the garret, a gloomy place bare under the red
tiles, some of which were broken. Looking out through the aperture in
the roof I could see the British and German trenches drawn as if in
chalk on a slate of green by an erratic hand, the hand of an idle
child. Behind the German trenches stood the red brick village of ----,
with an impudent chimney standing smokeless in the air, and a burning
mine that vomited clouds of thick black smoke over meadow-fields
splashed with poppies. Shells were bursting everywhere over the grass
and the white lines; the greenish grey fumes of lyddite, the white
smoke of shrapnel rose into mid-air, curled away and died. On the left
of the village a road ran back into the enemy's land, and from (p. 269)
it a cloud of dust was rising over the tree-tops; no doubt vehicles of
war which I could not see were moving about in that direction. I
stayed up in that garret for quite an hour full of the romance of my
watch and when I left I took my souvenir with me, a picture of the
Blessed Virgin in a cedar frame. That night we placed it outside our
dug-out over the door. In the morning we found it smashed to pieces by
a bullet.
Daily I spent some time in the garret on my way out to the water-cart;
and one day I found it occupied. Five soldiers and an officer were
standing at my peephole when I got up, with a large telescope fixed on
a tripod and trained on the enemy's lines. The War Intelligence
Department had taken over the house for an observation post.
"What do you want here?" asked the officer.
Soldiers are ordered to keep to the trenches on the way out and in,
none of the houses that line the way are to be visited. It was a case
for a slight prevarication. My water jar was out in the trench: I
carried my rifle and a bandolier.
"I'm looking for a sniping position," I said. (p. 270)
"You cannot stop here," said the officer. "We've taken this place
over. Try some of the houses on the left."
I cleared out. Three days later when on my usual errand I saw that the
roof of my observation villa had been blown in. Nobody would be in
there now I concluded and ventured inside. The door which stood at the
bottom of the garret stair was closed. I caught hold of the latch and
pulled it towards me. The door held tight. As I struggled with it I
had a sense of pulling against a detaining hand that strove to hide a
mystery, something fearful, from my eye. It swung towards me slowly
and a pile of bricks fell on my feet as it opened. Something dark and
liquid oozed out under my boots. I felt myself slip on it and knew
that I stood on blood. All the way up the rubble-covered stairs there
was blood, it had splashed red on the railings and walls. Laths,
plaster, tiles and beams lay on the floor above and in the midst of
the jumble was a shattered telescope still moist with the blood of
men. Had all been killed and were all those I had met a few days
before in the garret when the shell landed on the roof? It was
impossible to tell.
I returned to the dug-out meditating on the strange things that (p. 271)
can be seen by him who goes souvenir-hunting between Souchez and
Ypres. As I entered I found Bill gazing mutely at some black liquid in
a sooty mess-tin.
"Some milk, Bill," I said handing him the tin of Nestle's which had
just come to me in a Gargantuan parcel from an English friend.
"No milk, matey," he answered, "I'm feelin' done up proper, I am.
Cannot eat a bite. Tummy out of order, my 'ead spinnin' like a top.
When's sick parade?" he asked.
"Seven o'clock," I said, "Is it as bad as that?"
"Worse than that," he answered with a smile, "'Ave yer a cigarette to
spare?"
"Yes," I answered, fumbling in my pocket.
"Well, give it to somebody as 'asn't got none," said Bill, "I'm off
the smokin' a bit."
The case was really serious since Bill could not smoke, a smokeless
hour was for him a Purgatorial period, his favourite friend was his
fag. After tea I went with him to the dressing station, and Ted Vittle
of Section 4 accompanied us. Ted's tummy was also out of order and his
head was spinning like a top. The men's equipment was carried (p. 272)
out, men going sick from the trenches to the dressing-station at the
rear carry their rifles and all portable property in case they are
sent off to hospital. The sick soldier's stuff always goes to hospital
with him.
I stood outside the door of the dressing-station while the two men
were in with the M.O. "What's wrong, Bill?" I asked when he came out.
"My tempratoor's an 'undred and nine," said my comrade.
"A hundred and what?" I ejaculated.
"'Undred point nine 'is was," said Ted Vittle. "Mine's a 'undred point
eight. The Twentieth 'as 'ad lots of men gone off to 'orsp to-day
sufferin' from the same thing. Pyraxis the M.O. calls it. Trench fever
is the right name."
"Right?" interrogated Bill.
"Well it's a name we can understand," said Ted.
"Are you going back to the trenches again?" I asked.
"We're to sleep 'ere to-night in the cellar under the dressin'-station,"
they told me. "In the mornin' we're to report to the doctor again.
'E's a bloke 'e is, that doctor. 'E says we're to take nothing (p. 273)
but heggs and milk and the milk must be boiled."
"Is the army going to supply it?"
"No blurry fear," said Bill. "Even if we 'ad the brass and the
appetite we can't buy any milk or heggs 'ere."
I went back to the firing trench alone. Bill and Ted Vittle did not
return the next day or the day after. Three weeks later Bill came
back.
We were sitting in our dug-out at a village the bawl of a donkey from
Souchez, when a jew's harp, playing ragtime was heard outside.
"Bill," we exclaimed in a voice, and sure enough it was Bill back to
us again, trig and tidy from hospital, in a new uniform, new boots and
with that air of importance which can only be the privilege of a man
who has seen strange sights in strange regions.
"What's your temperature?" asked Stoner.
"Blimey, it's the correct thing now, but it didn't arf go up and
down," said Bill sitting down on the dug-out chair, our only one since
a shell dropped through the roof. Some days before B Company had held
the dug-out and two of the boys were killed. "It's no fun the
'orspital I can tell yer."
"What sort of disease is Pyraxis?" asked Goliath. (p. 274)
"It's not 'arf bad, if you've got it bad, and it's not good when
you've it only 'arf bad," said Bill, adding, "I mean that if I 'ad it
bad I would get off to blighty, but my case was only a light one, not
so bad as Ted Vittle. 'E's not back yet, maybe it's a trip across the
Channel for 'im. 'E was real bad when 'e walked down with me to
Mazingarbe. I was rotten too, couldn't smoke. It was sit down and rest
for fifteen minutes then walk for five. Mazingarbe is only a mile and
an 'arf from the dressing-station and it took us three hours to get
down; from there we took the motor-ambulance to the clearing hospital.
There was a 'ot bath there and we were put to bed in a big 'ouse,
blankets, plenty of them and a good bed. 'Twas a grand place to kip
in. Bad as I was, I noticed that."
"No stand-to at dawn?" I said.
"Two 'ours before dawn we 'ad to stand-to in our blankets, matey,"
said Bill. "The Germans began to shell the blurry place and 'twas up
to us to 'op it. We went dozens of us to the rear in a 'bus. Shook us!
We were rattled about like tins on cats' tails and dumped down at
another 'orsp about breakfast time. My tempratoor was up more (p. 275)
than ever there; I almost burst the thremometur. And Ted! Blimey, yer
should 'ave seen Ted! Lost to the wide, 'e was. 'E could 'ardly speak;
but 'e managed to give me his mother's address and I was to write 'ome
a long letter to 'er when 'e went West."
"Allowed to 'ave peace in that place! No fear; the Boches began to
shell us, and they sent over fifty shells in 'arf an 'our. All troops
were ordered to leave the town and we went with the rest to a 'orsp
under canvas in X----.
"A nice quiet place X---- was, me and Ted was along with two others in
a bell-tent and 'ere we began to get better. Our clothes were taken
from us, all my stuff and two packets of fags and put into a locker. I
don't know what I was thinking of when I let the fags go. There was
one feller as had two francs in his trousers' pocket when 'e gave 'is
trousers in and 'e got the wrong trousers back. 'E discovered that one
day when 'e was goin' to send the R.A.M.C. orderly out for beer for
all 'ands.
"'Twas a 'ungry place X. We were eight days in bed and all we got was
milk and once or twice a hegg. Damned little heggs they were; (p. 276)
they must 'ave been laid by tomtits in a 'urry. I got into trouble
once; I climbed up the tent-pole one night just to 'ave a song on my
own, and when I was on the top down comes the whole thing and I landed
on Ted Vittle's bread basket. 'Is tempratoor was up to a 'undred and
one point five next mornin'. The doctor didn't 'arf give me a look
when 'e 'eard about me bein' up the pole."
"Was he a nice fellow, the doctor?" I asked.
"Not 'arf, 'e wasn't," said Bill. "When I got into my old uniform 'e
looked 'ard at my cap. You remember it boys; 'twas more like a
ragman's than a soldier of the King's. Then 'e arst me: ''Ave yer seen
much war?' 'Not 'arf, I 'avent,' I told him. 'I thought so,' 'e said,
'judgin' by yer cap.' And 'e told the orderly to indent me for a brand
new uniform. And 'e gave me two francs to get a drink when I was
leavin'."
"Soft-hearted fellow," said Goliath.
"Was he!" remarked Bill. "Yer should be there when 'e came in one
mornin'."
"'Ow d'ye feel?" he asked Ted Vittle.
"Not fit at all, sir," says Ted.
"Well carry on," said the doctor.
I looked at Ted, Ted looked at me and 'e tipped me the wink. (p. 277)
"'Ow d'ye feel," said the doctor to me.
"Not fit at all," I answers.
"Back to duties," 'e said and my jaw dropped with a click like a rifle
bolt. 'Twas ten minutes after that when 'e gave me the two francs."
"I saw Spud 'Iggles, 'im that was wounded at Givenchy;" Bill informed
us after he had lit a fresh cigarette.
"'Ole Spud!"
"'Ows Spud?"
"Not so bad, yer know," said Bill, answering our last question. "'E's
got a job."
"A good one?" I queried.
"Not 'arf," Bill said. "'E goes round with the motor car that goes to
places where soldiers are billeted and gathers up all the ammunition,
bully beef tins, tins of biscuits and everything worth anything that's
left behind--"
"Bill Teake. Is Bill Teake there?" asked a corporal at the door of the
dug-out.
"I'm 'ere, old Sawbones," said Bill, "wot d'ye want me for?"
"It's your turn on sentry," said the corporal.
"Oh! blimey, that's done it!" grumbled Bill. "I feel my tempratoor (p. 278)
goin' up again. It's always some damn fatigue or another in this
cursed place. I wonder when will I 'ave the luck to go sick again."