Trench-life in Belgium is an entirely different proposition from
trench-life in France. The undulating country in which we now find
ourselves offers an infinite choice of unpleasant surroundings.
Down south, Vermelles way, the trenches stretch in a comparatively
straight line for miles, facing one another squarely, and giving
little opportunity for tactical enterprise. The infantry blaze and
sputter at one another in front; the guns roar behind; and that is all
there is to be said about it. But here, the line follows the curve of
each little hill. At one place you are in a salient, in a trench which
runs round the face of a bulging "knowe"--a tempting target for shells
of every kind. A few hundred yards farther north, or south, the ground
is much lower, and the trench-line runs back into a re-entrant,
seeking for a position which shall not be commanded from higher ground
in front.
The line is pierced at intervals by railway-cuttings, which have to be
barricaded, and canals, which require special defences. Almost every
spot in either line is overlooked by some adjacent ridge, or enfiladed
from some adjacent trench. It is disconcerting for a methodical young
officer, after cautiously scrutinising the trench upon his front
through a periscope, to find that the entire performance has been
visible (and his entire person exposed) to the view of a Boche trench
situated on a hill-slope upon his immediate left.
And our trench-line, with its infinity of salients and re-entrants,
is itself only part of the great salient of "Wipers." You may imagine
with what methodical solemnity the Boche "crumps" the interior of that
constricted area. Looking round at night, when the star-shells float
up over the skyline, one could almost imagine one's self inside a
complete circle, instead of a horseshoe.
The machine-gunners of both sides are extremely busy. In the plains of
France the pursuit of their nefarious trade was practically limited to
front-line work. When they did venture to indulge in what they called
"overhead" fire, their friends in the forefront used to summon them
after the performance, and reproachfully point out sundry ominous
rents and abrasions in the back of the front-line parapet. But here
they can withdraw behind a convenient ridge, and _strafe_ Boches a
mile and a half away, without causing any complaints. Needless to say,
Brother Boche is not backward in returning the compliment. He has one
gun in particular which never tires in its efforts to rouse us from
_ennui_. It must be a long way off, for we can only just hear the
report. Moreover, its contribution to our liveliness, when it does
arrive, falls at an extremely steep angle--so steep, indeed, that it
only just clears the embankment under which we live, and falls upon
the very doorsteps of the dug-outs with which that sanctuary is
honeycombed.
This invigorating shower is turned on regularly for ten minutes, at
three, six, nine, and twelve o'clock daily. Its area of activity
includes our tiny but, alas! steadily growing cemetery. One evening a
regiment which had recently "taken over" selected 6 P.M. as a suitable
hour for a funeral. The result was a grimly humorous spectacle--the
mourners, including the Commanding Officer and officiating clergy,
taking hasty cover in a truly novel trench; while the central figure
of the obsequies, sublimely indifferent to the Hun and all his
frightfulness, lay on the grass outside, calm and impassive amid the
whispering hail of bullets.
As for the trenches themselves--well, as the immortal costermonger
observed, "there ain't no word in the blooming language" for them.
In the first place, there is no settled trench-line at all. The
Salient has been a battlefield for twelve months past. No one has ever
had the time, or opportunity, to construct anything in the shape of
permanent defences. A shallow trench, trimmed with an untidy parapet
of sandbags, and there is your stronghold! For rest and meditation,
a hole in the ground, half-full of water and roofed with a sheet
of galvanised iron; or possibly a glorified rabbit-burrow in a
canal-bank. These things, as a modern poet has observed, are all right
in the summer-time. But winter here is a disintegrating season. It
rains heavily for, say, three days. Two days of sharp frost succeed,
and the rain-soaked earth is reduced to the necessary degree of
friability. Another day's rain, and trenches and dug-outs come sliding
down like melted butter. Even if you revet the trenches, it is not
easy to drain them. The only difference is that if your line is
situated on the forward slope of a hill the support trench drains into
the firing-trench; if they are on the reverse slope, the firing-trench
drains into the support trench. Our indefatigable friends Box and Cox,
of the Royal Engineers, assisted by sturdy Pioneer Battalions, labour
like heroes; but the utmost they can achieve, in a low-lying country
like this, is to divert as much water as possible into some other
Brigade's area. Which they do, right cunningly.
In addition to the Boche, we wage continuous warfare with the
elements, and the various departments of Olympus render us
characteristic assistance. The Round Game Department has issued a set
of rules for the correct method of massaging and greasing the feet.
(Major Wagstaffe refers to this as, "Sole-slapping; or What to do in
the Children's Hour; complete in Twelve Fortnightly Parts.") The Fairy
Godmother Department presents us with what the Quartermaster describes
as "Boots, gum, thigh"; and there has also been an issue of so-called
fur jackets, in which the Practical Joke Department has plainly taken
a hand. Most of these garments appear to have been contributed by
animals unknown to zoology, or more probably by a syndicate thereof.
Corporal Mucklewame's costume gives him the appearance of a St.
Bernard dog with Astrakhan fore legs. Sergeant Carfrae is attired
in what looks like the skin of Nana, the dog-nurse in "Peter Pan."
Private Nigg, an undersized youth of bashful disposition, creeps
forlornly about his duties disguised as an imitation leopard. As he
passes by, facetious persons pull what is left of his tail. Private
Tosh, on being confronted with his winter _trousseau_, observed
bitterly--
"I jined the Airmy for tae be a sojer; but I doot they must have pit
me doon as a mountain goat!"
Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to resemble an
unsuccessful compromise between Esau and an Eskimo, they keep our
bodies warm. We wish we could say the same for our feet. On good days
we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occasionally over the knees.
Thrice blessed then are our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these
cannot altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains.
Over the way, Brother Boche is having a bad time of it: his trenches
are in a worse state than ours. Last night a plaintive voice cried
out--
"Are you dere, Jock? Haf you whiskey? We haf plenty water!"
Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided.
There is no doubt that whatever the German General Staff may think
about the war and the future, the German Infantry soldier is "fed-up."
His satiety takes the form of a craving for social intercourse with
the foe. In the small hours, when the vigilance of the German N.C.O.'s
is relaxed, and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, he makes
rather pathetic overtures. We are frequently invited to come out
and shake hands. "Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex' month!"
(Evidently the Kaiser has had another revelation.) The other morning a
German soldier, with a wisp of something white in his hand, actually
clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced towards our lines. The
distance was barely seventy yards. No shot was fired, but you may be
sure that safety-catches were hastily released. Suddenly, in the tense
silence, the ambassador's nerve failed him. He bolted back, followed
by a few desultory bullets. The reason for his sudden panic was never
rightly ascertained, but the weight of public opinion inclined to the
view that Mucklewame, who had momentarily exposed himself above the
parapet, was responsible.
"I doot he thocht ye were a lion escapit from the Scottish Zoo!"
explained a brother corporal, referring to his indignant colleague's
new winter coat.
Here is another incident, with a different ending. At one point our
line approaches to within fifteen yards of the Boche trenches. One wet
and dismal dawn, as the battalion stood to arms in the neighbourhood
of this delectable spot, there came a sudden shout from the enemy, and
an outburst of rapid rifle fire. Almost simultaneously two breathless
and unkempt figures tumbled over our parapet into the firing-trench.
The fusillade died away.
To the extreme discomfort and shame of a respectable citizen of
Bannockburn, one Private Buncle, the more hairy of the two visitors,
upon recovering his feet, promptly flung his arms around his neck and
kissed him on both cheeks. The outrage was repeated, by his companion,
upon Private Nigg. At the same time both visitors broke into a joyous
chant of "Russky! Russky!" They were escaped Russian prisoners.
When taken to Headquarters they explained that they had been brought
up to perform fatigue work near the German trenches, and had seized
upon a quiet moment to slip into some convenient undergrowth. Later,
under cover of night, they had made their way in the direction of the
firing-line, arriving just in time to make a dash before daylight
discovered them. You may imagine their triumphal departure from our
trenches--loaded with cigarettes, chocolate, bully beef, and other
imperishable souvenirs.
We have had other visitors. One bright day a Boche aeroplane made
a reconnaissance of our lines. It was a beautiful thing, white and
birdlike. But as its occupants were probably taking photographs of our
most secret fastnesses, artistic appreciation was dimmed by righteous
wrath--wrath which turned to profound gratification when a philistine
British plane appeared in the blue and engaged the glittering stranger
in battle. There was some very pretty aerial manoeuvring, right over
our heads, as the combatants swooped and circled for position. We
could hear their machine-guns pattering away; and the volume of sound
was increased by the distant contributions of "Coughing Clara"--our
latest anti-aircraft gun, which appears to suffer from chronic
irritation of the mucous membrane.
Suddenly the German aeroplane gave a lurch; then righted herself; then
began to circle down, making desperate efforts to cross the neutral
line. But the British airman headed her off. Next moment she lurched
again, and then took a "nosedive" straight into the British trenches.
She fell on open ground, a few hundred yards behind our second line.
The place had been a wilderness a moment before; but the crowd which
instantaneously sprang up round the wreck could not have been less
than two hundred strong. (One observes the same uncanny phenomenon in
London, when a cab-horse falls down in a deserted street.) However,
it melted away at the rebuke of the first officer who hurried to the
spot, the process of dissolution being accelerated by several bursts
of German shrapnel.
Both pilot and observer were dead. They had made a gallant fight, and
were buried the same evening, with all honour, in the little cemetery,
alongside many who had once been their foes, but were now peacefully
neutral.