After this digression we at length reach the firing-line. It is quite
unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered. It
is situated in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well-defined
trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of
either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night
and day, for many months. The wood itself is a mere forest of poles:
hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In
the no-man's-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to
mere stumps a few inches high.
It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene
presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be--and generally
is--a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This
should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.
But the trench is empty--which is not altogether surprising,
considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are
scattered through the wood behind--in dug-outs, in redoubts, or _en
plein air_--cooking, washing, or repairing their residences. The whole
scene suggests a gipsy encampment rather than a fortified post. A
hundred yards away, through the trees, you can plainly discern the
Boche firing-trench, and the Boche in that trench can discern you: yet
never a shot comes. It is true that bullets are humming through the
air and glancing off trees, but these are mostly due to the enterprise
of distant machine-guns and rifle-batteries, firing from some position
well adapted for enfilade. Frontal fire there is little or none. In
the front-line trenches, at least, Brother Boche has had enough of it.
His motto now is, "Live and let live!" In fact, he frequently makes
plaintive statements to that effect in the silence of night.
You might think, then, that life in Willow Grove would be a tranquil
affair. But if you look up among the few remaining branches of that
tall tree in the centre of the wood, you may notice shreds of some
material flapping in the breeze. Those are sandbags--or were. Last
night, within the space of one hour, seventy-three shells fell into
this wood, and the first of them registered a direct hit upon the
dug-out of which those sandbags formed part. There were eight men
in that dug-out. The telephone-wires were broken in the first few
minutes, and there was some delay before word could be transmitted
back to Headquarters. Then our big guns far in rear spoke out, until
the enemy's batteries (probably in response to an urgent appeal from
their own front line) ceased firing. Thereupon "A" Company, who at
Bobby Little's behest had taken immediate cover in the water-logged
support-trench, returned stolidly to their dug-outs in Willow Grove.
Death, when he makes the mistake of raiding your premises every day,
loses most of his terrors and becomes a bit of a bore.
This morning the Company presents its normal appearance: its numbers
have been reduced by eight--_c'est tout_! It may be some one else's
turn to-morrow, but after all, that is what we are here for. Anyhow,
we are keeping the Boches out of "Wipers," and a bit over. So we
stretch our legs in the wood, and keep the flooded trench for the next
emergency.
Let us approach a group of four which is squatting sociably round a
small and inadequate fire of twigs, upon which four mess-tins are
simmering. The quartette consists of Privates Cosh and Tosh, together
with Privates Buncle and Nigg, preparing their midday meal.
"Tak' off your damp chup, Jimmy," suggested Tosh to Buncle, who was
officiating as stoker. "Ye mind what the Captain said aboot smoke?"
"It wasna the Captain: it was the Officer," rejoined Buncle
cantankerously.
(It may here be explained, at the risk of another digression, that no
length of association or degree of intimacy will render the average
British soldier familiar with the names of his officers. The Colonel
is "The C.O."; the Second in Command is "The Major"; your Company
Commander is "The Captain," and your Platoon Commander "The Officer."
As for all others of commissioned rank in the regiment, some
twenty-four in all, they are as nought. With the exception of the
Quartermaster, in whose shoes each member of the rank and file hopes
one day to stand, they simply do not exist.)
"Onyway," pursued the careful Tosh, "he said that if any smoke was
shown, all fires was tae be pitten oot. So mind and see no' to get a
cauld dinner for us all, Jimmy!"
"Cauld or het," retorted the gentleman addressed, "it's little dinner
I'll be gettin' this day! And ye ken fine why!" he added darkly.
Private Tosh removed a cigarette from his lower lip and sighed
patiently.
"For the last time," he announced, with the air of a righteous man
suffering long, "I did not lay ma hand on your dirrty wee bit ham!"
"Maybe," countered the bereaved Buncle swiftly, "you did not lay your
hand upon it; but you had it tae your breakfast for all that, Davie!"
"I never pit ma hand on it!" repeated Tosh doggedly.
"No? Then I doot you gave it a bit kick with your foot," replied the
inflexible Buncle.
"Or got some other body tae luft it for him!" suggested Private Nigg,
looking hard at Tosh's habitual accomplice, Cosh.
"I had it pitten in an auld envelope from hame, addressed with my
name," continued the mourner. "It couldna hae got oot o' that by
accident!"
"Weel," interposed Cosh, with forced geniality, "it's no a thing tae
argie-bargie aboot. Whatever body lufted it, it's awa' by this time.
It's a fine day, boys!"
This flagrant attempt to raise the conversation to a less
controversial plane met with no encouragement. Private Buncle,
refusing to be appeased, replied sarcastically--
"Aye, is it? And it was a fine nicht last nicht, especially when the
shellin' was gaun on! Especially in number seeven dug-oot!"
There was a short silence. Number seven dug-out was no more, and five
of its late occupants were now lying under their waterproof sheets,
not a hundred yards away, waiting for a Padre. Presently, however,
the pacific Cosh, who in his hours of leisure was addicted to mild
philosophical rumination, gave a fresh turn to the conversation.
"Mphm!" he observed thoughtfully. "They say that in a war every man
has a bullet waiting for him some place or other, with his name on
it! Sooner or later, he gets it. Aye! Mphm!" He sucked his teeth
reflectively, and glanced towards the Field Ambulance. "Sooner or
later!"
"What for would he pit his name on it, Wully?" inquired Nigg, who was
not very quick at grasping allusions.
"He wouldna pit on the name himself," explained the philosopher.
"What I mean is, there's a bullet for each one of us somewhere over
there"--he jerked his head eastward--"in a Gairman pooch."
"What way could a Gairman pit my name on a bullet?" demanded Nigg
triumphantly. "He doesna ken it!"
"Man," exclaimed Cosh, shedding some of his philosophic calm, "can ye
no unnerstand that what I telled ye was jist a mainner of speakin'?
When I said that a man's name was on a bullet, I didna mean that it
was _written_ there."
"Then what the hell _did_ ye mean?" inquired the mystified
disciple--not altogether unreasonably.
Private Tosh made a misguided but well-meaning attempt to straighten
out the conversation.
"He means, Sandy," he explained in a soothing voice, "that the name
was just stampit on the bullet. Like--like--like an identity disc!" he
added brilliantly.
The philosopher clutched his temples with both hands.
"I dinna mean onything o' the kind," he roared. "What I intend tae
imply is _this_, Sandy Nigg. Some place over there there is a bullet
in a Gairman's pooch, and one day that bullet will find its way intil
your insides as sure as if your name was written on it! _That's_ what
I meant. Jist a mainner of speakin'. Dae ye unnerstand me the noo?"
But it was the injured Buncle who replied--like a lightning-flash.
"Never you fear, Sandy, boy!" he proclaimed to his perturbed ally.
"That bullet has no' gotten your length yet. Maybe it never wull.
There's mony a thing in this worrld with one man's name on it that
finds its way intil the inside of some other man." He fixed Tosh with
a relentless eye. "A bit ham, for instance!"
It was a knock-out blow.
"For ony sake," muttered the now demoralised Tosh, "drop the subject,
and I'll gie ye a bit ham o' ma ain! There's just time tae cook it--"
"What kin' o' a fire is this?"
A cold shadow fell upon the group as a substantial presence inserted
itself between the debaters and the wintry sunshine. Corporal
Mucklewame was speaking, in his new and awful official voice, pointing
an accusing finger at the fire, which, neglected in the ardour of
discussion, was smoking furiously.
"Did you wish the hale wood tae be shelled?" continued Mucklewame
sarcastically. "Put oot the fire at once, or I'll need tae bring ye
all before the Officer. It is a cauld dinner ye'll get, and ye'll
deserve it!"