Meanwhile, up in the trenches, the combatants are beguiling the time
in their several ways.
Let us take the reserve line first--the lair of Battalion Headquarters
and its appurtenances. Much of our time here, as elsewhere, is
occupied in unostentatious retirement to our dug-outs, to avoid the
effects of a bombardment. But a good amount--an increasing amount--of
it is devoted to the contemplation of our own shells bursting over the
Boche trenches. Gone are the days during which we used to sit close
and "stick it out," consoling ourselves with the vague hope that
by the end of the week our gunners might possibly have garnered
sufficient ammunition to justify a few brief hours' retaliation. The
boot is on the other leg now. For every Boche battery that opens on
us, two or three of ours thunder back a reply--and that without any
delays other than those incidental to the use of that maddening
instrument, the field-telephone. During the past six months neither
side has been able to boast much in the way of ground actually gained;
but the moral ascendancy--the initiative--the offensive--call it what
you will--has changed hands; and no one knows it better than the
Boche. We are the attacking party now.
The trenches in this country are not arranged with such geometric
precision as in France. For instance, the reserve line is not always
connected with the firing-lines by a communication-trench.
Those persons whose duty it is to pay daily visits to the
fire-trenches--Battalion Commanders, Gunner and Sapper officers,
an occasional Staff Officer, and an occasional most devoted
Padre--perform the journey as best they may. Sometimes they skirt a
wood or hedge, sometimes they keep under the lee of an embankment,
sometimes they proceed across the open, with the stealthy caution
of persons playing musical chairs, ready to sit down in the nearest
shell-crater the moment the music--in the form of a visitation of
"whizz-bangs"--strikes up.
It is difficult to say which kind of weather is least favourable to
this enterprise. On sunny days one's movements are visible to Boche
observers upon distant summits; while on foggy days the Boche gunners,
being able to see nothing at all, amuse themselves by generous and
unexpected contributions of shrapnel in all directions. Stormy weather
is particularly unpleasant, for the noise of the wind in the trees
makes it difficult to hear the shell approaching. Days of heavy rain
are the most desirable on the whole, for then the gunners are too
busy bailing out their gun-pits to worry their heads over adventurous
pedestrians. One learns, also, to mark down and avoid particular
danger-spots. For instance, the southeast corner of that wood, where
a reserve company are dug in, is visited by "Silent Susans" for about
five minutes each noontide: it is therefore advisable to select some
other hour for one's daily visit. (Silent Susan, by the way, is not a
desirable member of the sex. Owing to her intensely high velocity she
arrives overhead without a sound, and then bursts with a perfectly
stunning detonation and a shower of small shrapnel bullets.) There
is a fixed rifle-battery, too, which fires all day long, a shot at a
time, down the main street of the ruined and deserted village named
Vrjoozlehem, through which one must pass on the way to the front-line
trenches. Therefore in negotiating this delectable spot, one shapes
a laborious course through a series of back yards and garden-plots,
littered with broken furniture and brick rubble, allowing the
rifle-bullets the undisputed use of the street. The mention of
Vrjoozlehem--that is not its real name, but a simplified form of
it--brings to our notice the wholesale and whole-hearted fashion in
which the British Army has taken Belgian institutions under its wing.
Nomenclature, for instance. In France we make no attempt to interfere
with this: we content ourselves with devising a pronounceable
variation of the existing name. For example, if a road is called La
Rue de Bois, we simply call it "Roodiboys," and leave it at that.
On the same principle, Etaples is modified to "Eatables," and
Sailly-la-Bourse to "Sally Booze." But in Belgium more drastic
procedure is required. A Scotsman is accustomed to pronouncing
difficult names, but even he is unable to contend with words composed
almost entirely of the letters _j, z_, and _v_. So our resourceful
Ordnance Department has issued maps--admirable maps--upon which the
outstanding features of the landscape are marked in plain figures.
But instead of printing the original place-names, they put "Moated
Grange," or "Clapham Junction," or "Dead Dog Farm," which simplifies
matters beyond all possibility of error. (The system was once
responsible, though, for an unjust if unintentional aspersion upon
the character of a worthy man. The C.O. of a certain battalion had
occasion to complain to those above him of the remissness of one of
his chaplains. "He's a lazy beggar, sir," he said. "Over and over
again I have told him to come up and show himself in the front-line
trenches, but he never seems to be able to get past Leicester
Square!")
The naming of the trenches themselves has been left largely to local
enterprise. An observant person can tell, by a study of the numerous
name-boards, which of his countrymen have been occupying the line
during the past six months. "Grainger Street" and "Jesmond Dene" give
direct evidence of "Canny N'castle." "Sherwood Avenue" and "Notts
Forest" have a Midland flavour. Lastly, no great mental effort is
required to decide who labelled two communication trenches "The
Gorbals" and "Coocaddens" respectively!
Some names have obviously been bestowed by officers, as "Sackville
Street," "The Albany," and "Burlington Arcade" denote. "Pinch-Gut"
and "Crab-Crawl" speak for themselves. So does "Vermin Villa." Other
localities, again, have obviously been labelled by persons endowed
with a nice gift of irony. "Sanctuary Wood" is the last place on earth
where any one would dream of taking sanctuary; while "Lovers' Walk,"
which bounds it, is the scene of almost daily expositions of the
choicest brand of Boche "hate."
And so on. But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty
trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr.
Cook--as undoubtedly it will be--care should be taken that these
street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It would be impossible to
select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts
who constructed them--too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep
within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.